


While Our Bones Keep Looking Back

by emptydistractions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Evil Alexander Pierce, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Memory Loss, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omega Verse, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Project Insight (Marvel), Protective Steve Rogers, Top Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions
Summary: In 1944, Steve marches into Azzano to find his Bucky. Against all odds, he find him, alive and unharmed. The two of them manage to carve out their own moments of happiness, despite the fighting raging on around them. It doesn't last thought. Nothing does. Less than a year later, the war rips them apart. Bucky falls off the train, and half of Steve's heart goes with him.In 2014, Steve finds himself half a world and nearly a century away from everything that he’s lost. And for all the good that the future holds, Steve still misses Bucky like a lost limb. He’s a little lost, and a lot lonely, but he makes do. And then comes the night of Pierce's party, and suddenly everything that Steve thought he'd lost is right in front of him. The connection to his past. The chance at a life he never had. Hismate. It's everything Steve ever wanted and everything he never dreamed he could have. It's perfect.Now if only Bucky felt the same.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 102
Kudos: 366
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the 2020 NASBB! I had the fortune to work with two amazing artists, amethystkrystal and paperdolls, and I couldn't be happier with our collaboration! As always, thank you endlessly to my amazing beta, Lillaby. My stories would never get off the ground if it weren't for you. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing this story, so I hope you enjoy reading it! Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the amazing fanvid that amethystkrystal made!
> 
> https://youtu.be/AGd3h0rbYy0

* * *

“Do you think people will notice if I just leave early?”

Natasha raised one perfect eyebrow in his direction. “Notice that you’ve left your own birthday party? Yes, I think they might.”

Steve sighed and took a sip from his nearly empty glass of scotch. The late summer breeze ruffled his hair as he leaned against the railing of the second story balcony. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, the sky shot through with bright streaks of red and orange, painting the immaculate lawn below in shadow.

“What don’t you like about them anyway?” Natasha asked. Like him, she was also draped over the edge of the railing, although she managed to make it look somehow elegant. Her silky, green dress complimented her gray-green eyes, and the setting sun highlighted the sharp jaunt of her cheekbones.

Steve cocked his head and gave her a questioning look before draining the rest of his glass and wishing in vain that he could feel it. But these days, a drink was more something to do with his hands than anything else.

“Parties,” she prompted him.

Steve sighed again, already dreaming about turning in for the night even though it was barely pushing 8pm. Behind him, he could hear muffled classical music and the drone of too many voices talking all at once. “It’s too…” He looked at the doors to the balcony, a solid barrier between him and the party inside, “messy in there. Loud. At least out here I can breathe.” And it was true. Inside was loud and bright, the house alive with the buzz of small talk. Out here it was quiet, the massive doors muffling the sound into nothing more than a background hum, interrupted only occasionally by the voices of people who wandered out onto the lawn below.

Natasha made a vaguely noncommittal sound, her lips pursed as she surveyed the horizon. “You know, you might find them more bearable if you did something besides spending the entire night drinking alone.”

“It hasn’t been the entire night,” he replied, the words coming out more defensively than he’d meant them to. She gave him a look, the one that generally meant he was being an idiot, and he winced. “Has it really?”

“A bit, yeah.”

He groaned and ran a palm over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “Fuck.”

“It must be really difficult.” The playful sarcasm was evident in her tone, and when Steve looked at her she had that cheeky grin that she seemed to reserve solely for ribbing him. “All these people here for you. Truly a tragedy. How do you manage?”

“I don’t even know most of these people.” At this point he may be arguing just to argue, but Natasha was always good for a little back-and-forth, and the conversation did wonders to break up his sour mood. “Them.” He pointed at a couple sharing a drink down on the massive porch that hugged the back wall of the mansion. Like the rest of the place, it was done up in lights and tasteful decorations. “Or him. Or her. And they certainly don’t know me.”

It wasn’t exactly a new revelation; it had been the same since the day he’d gotten the serum. That was when people had stopped seeing Steve, had stopped seeing the man, and started to see only what they could gain from being around him. It was true. None of these people were here for him. This party wasn’t even really for him. It was for politicians to rub elbows with celebrity, to pat themselves on the back and congratulate each other on their proximity to the figurehead that was Captain America. And nowhere in there did Steve Rogers play into the equation.

Damn. He’d aimed for playful and slid right back into gloomy.

“Oh my god, spare me the pity party.”

Steve laughed, the sound startled out of him. “That,” she pointed at the same couple Steve had singled out earlier, “is the ambassador to Malta and his wife.” Natasha was over his shoulder now, her breath warm on the back of his ear and her strong alpha scent flooding his nostrils as she spoke. “That right there is the house minority leader, and the woman he’s talking to heads up the biggest non-profit in the city.” She continued on, rattling off a list of names and titles that sounded more like an issue of Forbes’ top 100 than a guestlist.

“You know,” she said, when she was finally finished. “You should know at least some of these. You’ve been working in DC long enough.”

“I know, I know,” he waved off her comment. She was right after all. It helped to know the lay of the land. “Eventually.”

She gave him a thoroughly amused look. “You’re really not cut out for spy work, are you?”

He shrugged. “I never was.”

“You know, you’re in a new century now, Rogers,” she elbowed him lightly. “Maybe learn some new skills. Roll with the times.”

“You mean like cozying up to rich people?” he asked, cocking his head to indicate the people down below. “Believe me, that particular skill hasn’t changed all that much.”

“Yeah, they suck,” she agreed, and he looked at her in surprise. “But almost everyone does, if you look hard enough.”

It wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting to hear from her. Natasha fit in gracefully, effortlessly, everywhere she went. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Even you?”

“Especially me.” She smiled at him, and then cocked her head, considering. “Maybe not you.”

“Well, you know how I love defying expectations,” he said with a purposefully sardonic tone.

She shushed him gently. The sun had almost completely slipped below the horizon now, and her eyes reflected the vivid pink orange of the sky. “Sometimes,” she started carefully, “you have to learn to accept people as they are, and not as you want them to be. Even the sucky ones.”

His mouth twisted down at the corners as he sighed. “Things are more complicated than they used to be. Or maybe I am.” He sighed again and huffed a short laugh. “What I wouldn’t give some days to go back to punching Nazis and sleeping on the ground.”

He could see Natasha shake her head out of the corner of his eye before opening her mouth to say something. She paused, just a quick moment, as if she had changed her mind, before saying, “Steve. Enjoy it. It’s a nice party.” She poked him in the side with her elbow again. “Besides, only a few more hours and then you can go home and brood in the dark all you want.”

He gave her a look, but conceded all the same. “Yes ma’am.”

Apparently satisfied with his answer, she stood straight, dusted non-existent lint off of her dress, and disappeared back into the house. Steve stayed for a minute more, his eyes glued on the rapidly darkening sky. 

Maybe Natasha was right. It had been almost an entire year since he’d woken up cold and confused in that SHIELD facility, only to find out that he’d left behind everything he’d ever known; traded it in for a strange new city that wasn’t quite his anymore. Not, he thought ruefully, that he’d had much to leave behind. But this… he still couldn’t get used to it, and he didn’t know why. A world that was the same but wasn’t. The people. The politics. It was like he’d lost his footing, like the earth was tilting slowly beneath him, keeping him off balance and disoriented.

The door to the balcony opened at the same time that Steve had just about decided to leave. The sounds of the party inside spilled out through the open door, music and voices mingled into white noise. He could probably make out individual conversations if he tried, but he’d long made it a point not to eavesdrop just because he could. Footsteps crossed the marble flagstone as Steve kept his eyes turned forward. Heavy gait, favoring the left foot.

“Rumlow,” Steve said in greeting, before the man had even spoken.

“One day you’re gonna tell me how you do that,” Rumlow said, appearing at Steve’s side. He was loose-limbed, his words slurred by alcohol even this early into the night.

“Mmhmm,” Steve hummed noncommittally as he contemplated the mostly melted ice in his glass and considered having another drink. At least a refill might give him a good excuse to leave the conversation. It wasn’t that he disliked Rumlow. It was just that he wasn’t entirely sure that he liked him either. There was something about him, something Steve couldn’t quite nail down, that didn’t sit right, and Steve had learned a long time ago to trust his gut.

“Passed Natasha on my way out here.” Rumlow made a low whistling sound, and Steve pursed his lips in annoyance. He chose not to say anything, not that it mattered. Rumlow rambled right on regardless. “Be honest, Cap,” he said, leaning in close like they were friends sharing a secret. Beneath the overwhelming smell of booze, Steve could barely discern his beta scent. “You’re hittin’ that right?”

Steve took a deep, calming breath, reminding himself of the multiple times that Natasha had politely but firmly insisted that she fight her own battles before he caught on. “No,” he said stiffly, instead of what he actually wanted to say. He pushed off the railing and stood straight, letting himself tower purposefully over Rumlow. And then, just because he’d always had a bit of a petty streak, “But you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah?” Rumlow’s look of surprise turned quickly into a leer. “She does have a bangin’ body.”

Steve forced a laugh to match Rumlow’s own.

“Any tips?”

“Just take charge,” Steve told him, making his voice as sincere as possible. “She likes strong men.”

Rumlow was nodding, the look in his eyes uncomfortably vulture-like. “Yeah, okay. Thanks Cap. And uh, happy birthday, I guess.”

Steve didn’t bother to answer, turning away and heading for the door as he congratulated himself on not rolling his eyes sooner. The conversation had made him feel grimy all over, like he needed a hot shower. Well, at the very least, it would be fun to see Natasha take Rumlow down a few pegs.

Stepping into the house was like stepping into a different world. The relative peace and tranquility of the balcony vanished as the door swung shut behind him. Inside, the lights were dimmed and the sound of classical piano music floated through the air, weaving around dozens of different conversations. Throngs of people, all dressed to the nines, talked and drank and danced. The room he’d stepped into was large, with a soaring ceiling and elegant decoration. The wealth and luxury of it all still astounded him.

He thought he heard someone say his name, but he ignored it, pushing through the crowd of people like a fish swimming upstream. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was headed, only that he needed to be away for a little bit. He thought he’d been ready to rejoin the party, but now he wasn’t so sure. His brain felt like it was starting to go fuzzy, his thoughts starting to cycle in the way they did when things got overwhelming, as they so often did these days. There were too many people, too much noise, too many things to look at, and too many different scents mixing together and flooding his senses. Alphas and betas and omegas, all mingling into one giant mass of humanity. Unconsciously, he found himself searching through the scents, looking in vain for the one he knew he wouldn’t find. Quickly, he got ahold of himself, berating himself silently for his momentary lapse of sense.

“Captain Rogers!”

This time it was loud enough that he couldn’t get away with ignoring it. He sighed heavily. All he wanted was peace and quiet, but was that too much to ask? Apparently so.

“Secretary Pierce,” Steve said, with a falsely cheerful tone as he turned to face the man who’d called his name.

The Secretary cut an imposing figure in his finely tailored suit, all roguish handsomeness and charm. His blonde hair was shot through with silver and his skin was starting to show the signs of age, but his smile was bright and charismatic. He had that quality about him that Steve had seen in so many of the politicians he’d met in his lifetime; that magnetic ability to lead with his words alone. Steve didn’t understand it, though he sometimes envied it. His own skills in leadership had always been those of action.

Steve looked at the wide, double-doors, and thought futilely about walking away to avoid the awkward small-talk. But he supposed this was one conversation he shouldn’t skip out on, given that the Secretary had thrown this party in the first place and they were currently standing in his ostentatiously large house. Steve quickly plastered what he hoped was a decent enough smile onto his face, and thought idly of the old children’s adage. Maybe if he smiled like this for long enough, his face would get stuck that way. At the very least, it would probably get people off his back

“Captain,” the Secretary continued, his pearly white teeth flashing as he spoke. “Have you met Senator Hitchens?”

Steve turned his fake smile to the group of people surrounding him. His cheeks felt sore with the effort of holding it. The men and women looking at him were all dressed in similarly elegant outfits. The women held cocktail glasses and looked bored as the men in their stiff, pressed suits stared at him with power-hungry eyes. God, sometimes Steve thought he’d rather be in a thousand wars than face a single roomful of politicians. 

“I haven’t,” Steve said as gracefully as he could manage. He was proud of himself when no hint of the annoyance he was feeling crept into his voice. He’d met hundreds of men just like the kind that surrounded him. And he’d found that by and large, they would drone on about their campaigns and causes they supported, but that when pressed, they would prefer to throw their money at whatever would get them the most positive press, consequences be damned.

What followed next was a long string of names and faces that Steve committed to memory, intent on making good on his promise to Natasha. If he was going to do as she’d said and really start trying, this seemed as good a place as any to start. Along with the introductions came an endless litany of platitudes and small talk, and enough handshaking to make even Steve’s wrist sore.

“Thank you for the party,” Steve told Pierce. “It was very kind of you to celebrate my birthday like this.” Loathe as he was to admit it, the thanks actually _was_ in order. It was a nice thing to do, no matter what other intentions were involved or not.

“Of course, Captain Rogers,” Pierce said smoothly. “You don’t know how thrilled we are to have you here in Washington. I look forward to getting some big things accomplished, you and me.”

Steve nodded, only half-listening. He’d greeted everyone as far as he could tell, memorized their faces and names and titles. He’d said his niceties. So was it too soon to try and break away? He suddenly wished fervently that Tony was here instead of back in New York. Tony was always good for drawing the attention of every last person in the room, and Steve could think of little else he’d love more right now than the distraction.

“Captain, have you given any thought to-“

“I’m so sorry,” a voice cut in, light and cheerful and absolutely music to Steve’s ears as a familiar scent filled his nose. “But do you mind if I steal Steve for a moment? Just a few things we need to discuss.”

Steve didn’t miss the momentary look of annoyance that flashed across Pierce’s face, there and gone again in an instant, almost like it hadn’t happened at all. “Of course not,” the Secretary said graciously, tipping his half-full glass in Steve’s direction. “We’ll catch up later Captain.”

Steve said a quick goodbye to the group, waving his hand in a sort of silent apology, before turning tail and just barely resisting the urge to run as he followed his savior across the room. They didn’t stop moving until they were across the room, several dozen people between them and the people Steve had just left.

“You know, if you had told me a year ago that I’d be saving Captain America from awkward dinner conversations, I’d’ve told you that you were out of your mind.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Steve said. It was a genuine statement. Sam, in his dark grey suit and white dress shirt, was a sight for sore eyes.

Sam laughed. “I’ve seen the look in my brother-in-law’s eyes when my auntie starts to talking to him. I know what a man in desperate need of a get-away looks like.”

Steve snorted in amusement. “Well, I’m sorry for your brother-in-law, but glad for me. Seriously, Sam. I appreciate it.” He waved a hand to indicate the massive room around them. “It’s all a bit…”

“Nah, man, I get it.” Sam shook his head, waving off Steve’s further explanation. “I’m just about talked out for the night. Was thinking about heading out. You wanna make a break for it? The food at Café Wilson isn’t as fancy as here, but I’m sure we could scrounge up some late-night eggs and toast. Maybe even bacon if you’re lucky.”

Steve was sorely tempted. Everything in him wanted to escape the night and the rest of the party, to hole up with Sam at his little house and laugh about the ridiculousness of life in the public eye. Unfortunately, the rational part of him prevailed in the end, and he shook his head regretfully. “Natasha might murder me if I leave. Or at least be severely disappointed.” He paused. “I’m not sure which would be worse.”

Sam’s posture straightened almost imperceptibly, his face going expectant before he seemed to smooth it quickly back over into nonchalance. What he couldn’t hide though, was the subtle change in his scent as his eye darted around the room, like Natasha might be hiding behind the curtains. “Natasha’s here tonight?”

And huh. Steve recognized that look, had even probably had it on his own face once upon a time. He hadn’t exactly planned on being privy to so much of Natasha’s love life tonight, but as always, Steve Rogers made plans and the universe laughed.

“She is,” Steve said, trying to keep his amusement in check. Unlike Rumlow, he actually liked Sam, and didn’t really want him to get on Natasha’s bad side. “She’s…” He scanned the room, looking out over the crowd of people for Natasha’s fiery hair. For someone so striking, she was remarkably adept at blending in.

“Bitch!”

A man’s voice rang out above the rest as the room quieted, everyone looking in the same direction. Steve followed the collective gaze to find Rumlow, staggering back across the floor, face and shirt soaked in what looked like some very expensive champagne.

“Found her,” Steve said dryly as he watched Rumlow find his footing. The crowd had cleared a bit, and he could see all the way across the floor to where he stood. Steve watched as Rumlow’s face went from white to red in seconds, his fists clenched at his sides as he glared at Natasha. Steve could see the look of annoyance on her face from here.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked, expression confused as he too watched Rumlow attempt wipe champagne from his face with an equally wet shirtsleeve

“Karma,” Steve answered. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

He started out across the room, and this time it was Sam who followed to keep up with him. “This alright, man? The two of you aren’t-“

Steve paused to shoot Sam a bewildered look. “Why does everyone think that?”

Sam put his hands up, a white flag of surrender, as they resumed course. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Steve sighed. “Sorry. It’s a bit of a sore subject right now.”

He planned his route to take him right into Rumlow’s path. He could read conflict from across a room, and this wasn’t exactly one of the more subtle cases. Steve caught Rumlow by the arm just as the man tried to charge forward. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the tenseness of Rumlow’s muscles, and the scent of anger rolled off of him in waves.

“Walk away,” Steve told him, his voice low and pitched for Rumlow alone.

“That bitch is crazy,” he told Steve angrily, fuming as he pushed to get out of Steve’s grasp. Steve tightened his fingers on Rumlow’s arm. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to tell him that any further struggle would be greatly unappreciated. “Fuckin’ crazy,” he repeated, wrenching his arm out of Steve’s grip and stalking away. The sound of gossip followed him out of the hall, as did multiple pairs of eyes.

“You good?” Steve asked, shaking out his hand and going to join Natasha. She was as cool and collected as ever, standing with an empty champagne flute in hand and a ten-foot circle of empty space around her as people stayed warily clear. Slowly, people looked away and normal conversation started back up, helped quickly along by several of Steve’s best glares.

“Nothing that a little alcohol couldn’t fix,” she answered.

“You know,” he said, laughing despite himself, “when people say that, they’re usually talking about drinking it.”

“What can I say?” she said with a casual shrug of one shoulder. “I’m unconventional. You know you didn’t have to do that.” She tipped her head toward the direction that Rumlow had disappeared. “I’ve handled worse.”

Steve laughed. “It wasn’t you I was worried about.” She flashed him a bright grin as he continued. “Nat, I don’t think you’ve met my friend Sam. He works down at the VA.”

Natasha looked at Sam for a long moment, very clearly sizing him up before turning her smile on him. Steve wondered if Sam realized the test he’d just passed. “I haven’t,” she said, offering her hand to Sam for a firm handshake. Sam, for his part, looked slightly stunned by her. Steve didn’t blame him. “Would you care to come with me to the bar, Sam who works at the VA? My glass seems to be empty.” She shook her empty champagne flute, the few drops of liquid still clinging to the glass catching the light and sparkling in the dimly lit room.

Sam grinned back at her. “Absolutely,” he said, offering up his arm. Natasha took it, an amused smile on her face as she took the lead towards the bar. Sam flashed him a grateful look before walking off. Steve watched as they left, already absorbed in conversation by the time they’d hit the door.

Steve couldn’t help the bittersweet feeling that filled him as he watched the two of them walk away. He didn’t begrudge them the connection; they’d probably make a great pair. He wouldn’t have introduced them if he didn’t think that. Natasha’s intense alpha nature would make a nice counterpoint to Sam’s calm beta. And besides, off the top of his head he couldn’t think of two people he liked more in the world right now, so to see them happy together should theoretically make him happy too. So then, why wasn’t it? Something in his chest ached, and his breath hitched for just a second as a smell, familiar as his own, drifted up out of his memories; summer rain and sun-baked concrete, fresh pencils and shaving cream and soap. For a moment it was like it was real, like he was really smelling it again instead of just something his brain had dreamed up, but no, that wasn’t right, couldn’t be right because Bucky-

Steve’s eyes popped open. He wasn’t even sure when they’d drifted closed. The room around him seemed to vanish, the people nothing more than ghosts as he breathed deep, concentrating hard on the mingled scents of so many people. And there it was again. Little more than a whisper, so scant it almost wasn’t there, except that it _was_ , he was sure of it. He felt his eyebrows furrow as his mouth twisted into a frown. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t.

“Captain?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.” Steve held up his hands, backing away quickly from whoever had tried to get his attention. He waved his apologies as he murmured excuses, rushing from the room and leaving a trail of miffed partygoers in his wake. But they didn’t matter. None of it mattered except for following that scent.


	2. Chapter 2

People tried in vain to flag him down as he made his way through the mansion, but Steve ignored them all, his brain fixated on one and one thing only. He only just managed to stop himself from sprinting through the rooms to chase down that scent. _It can’t be_ , he reminded himself. The words repeated in his head, an endless, infuriating loop. _It’s impossible impossible impossible_. But that smell... he’d know it anywhere. He’d know it even if he didn’t know himself.

In a matter of minutes, he’d left the party far behind him; the cheerful, twinkling lights and jazzy music giving way to empty rooms. This area of the house was obviously more private, the rooms dimly lit and the decorations more personal. Framed photos of the Secretary and his family watched his mad dash, their frozen eyes judging in silence.

He didn’t understand how a single family could ever need this many rooms. He followed the scent, panicking when it seemed to disappear momentarily as he crossed the threshold of one of the countless bedrooms, only to reappear again, stronger than ever when he dashed back out into the hallway. He was quick and ruthless in his searching, yanking open doors and inspecting closets and bathrooms, multiple bedrooms, and a cozy little library. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He could feel frustration rising in him, bubbling and viscous, as his search became more and more frantic.

Finally, he stopped outside a door and he knew, something in his brain screaming at him, that this was it. Had he stopped to think for even a second, he might have second-guessed himself, but there was no stopping. Something had taken him over, some primal urge from deep within him driving him forward. He didn’t know what he’d find on the other side of the door, couldn’t dare to hope. He didn’t waste another second, pulling the door open so hard that the doorknob almost came loose in his hand, the wooden frame rattling as the door practically came off its hinges to reveal…

A closet.

Momentarily bewildered, Steve blinked at the innocuous space. It was full of linens, neatly folded towels, and blankets; nothing out of the ordinary at all. He sniffed again and there it was, like sun-baked concrete and pencil shavings. He looked down the hall. It dead-ended in a bedroom that he’d already combed over, and the other way was the way he’d come. He stared again into the closet, eyes searching the wooden shelving like the answer might be carved in there, waiting for him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t _right_. And then, Steve thought in horror, this was finally it. He’d finally lost it, and this was the start of going crazy. Or maybe he already _was_ crazy. Maybe he’d never woken up at all, and this was all the fever dream of a dying brain as he lay trapped in ice underneath the Atlantic.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, scrubbing his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. This was exactly what Natasha had been talking about. He was too much in the past, so busy trying to reach back for the things he’d lost that his brain had completely invented the smell. And he’d convinced himself it was true because he’d wanted it to be so badly. The only thing he had to be thankful for was that no one was around right now to witness his complete descent into insanity. He swore again, frustrated and angry with himself or the world or maybe both.

He slammed a fist against the shelves, the wood rattling with the force of the hit. He was so busy feeling ashamed of the last ten minutes of his life that at first it didn’t register. When he finally realized what he was hearing, Steve’s head snapped up and his breath caught in his throat. There was a series of beeping noises, muffled and seemingly coming from right in front of him, accompanied by a heavy _thunk_ , like the disengaging of a deadbolt, and then a wall behind the shelves pulled away.

Steve stepped back, wide-eyed, his brain struggling to catch up as the wall slid completely out of place and lights flickered on, revealing a set of utilitarian steel steps that went down and out of sight. He barely had time to wonder what the hell he was looking at when it hit him full in the face; the smell, renewed and stronger than ever. Steve didn’t hesitate, his body moving before his brain could catch up, as he vaulted forward, taking the stairs three at a time.

The steps seemed to go on forever. The walls around him were bare concrete, the ceiling of the stairwell pitched low enough to brush the top of his head as he went. Fluorescent lights set every few feet buzzed in their covers and lit the entire space with a sick, yellow glow. It was like something out of a spy movie, more reminiscent of the old bomb shelters than a modern basement. If he’d stopped for one moment to wonder about what the hell this place was and why it was under the senator’s house, he probably would have laughed himself silly over the ridiculousness of it all. As it was, his mind was preoccupied with the smell that was getting stronger and stronger the further down he went. The sound of his feet on the steel steps was deafening, and he was just beginning to think that his skull might burst with the sound when suddenly the stairs ended. 

He found himself in a hallway. Like the stairs, it was sparse and cramped, the ceiling low and the walls close. It was like being inside a concrete tomb, and he felt himself break out into a cold sweat as memories of ice and cold and the feeling of sinking down down _down_ -

Steve shook his head violently, trying to will away the suffocating images. He’d been let out at the intersection of three hallways. Behind him, the stairs reached up towards the house; in front of him and to the left and right, stretched identical, gray hallways. There was nothing to guide him, no clues that might hint at which way was right. And now that he was down here, the smell seemed to be everywhere, permeating the air no matter which way he turned. He could see steel doors, heavy and foreboding, and each the same as the last. Which way should he go?

He heard it more than felt it, as something hit him hard in the face. Steve stumbled backwards as pain flared hot and bright in his nose. Something warm dripped down onto his lip, and he only had the presence of mind to think _‘blood’_ before another hit came. This one caught him in the jaw, and he nearly went down before his instincts kicked in, years of combat training taking over as he controlled his backward movement.

And oh god, was he stupid. He thought in vain of his run down the stairs. He’d probably made more noise than an entire herd of elephants in his haste to follow the scent. Another point for Natasha, he supposed. He really wasn’t cut out for this spy work at all. Not that it mattered right now. His attacker swung at him again, and this time Steve ducked at the last second, the force of the person’s punch making the air whistle above his head. They were good, not letting up as they predicted Steve’s movement and met his duck with a solid kick. Steve threw himself to the side, grunting as he took a boot to the ribs, though his quick action had robbed the kick of much of its momentum. Blood from his nose spattered on the concrete floor. Undeterred, his attacker continued, a relentless blur of fists and feet as they fought. Steve ducked and punched and kicked in turn, careful to keep his back to the stairs and a solid escape route.

The attacker threw another punch and Steve caught it with both hands, surprised at the strength behind it. And for a second, barely enough time for a breath, he saw the person’s face.

“Bucky?”

It wasn’t real. Steve’s brain was reeling and time felt frozen as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. But why was he surprised? Hadn’t something in him been waiting for this moment, searching for it? He’d run down Bucky’s scent like a bloodhound on nothing more than a whim and a bet. Unconsciously, Steve reached out for him, his mind screaming at him to take Bucky in his arms, to set the universe spinning right again. Bucky took the momentary lapse in judgement to lunge at Steve, knocking him backwards.

“Bucky!” Steve yelled this time, scrambling backwards. This wasn’t right. Steve didn’t want to fight him, but Bucky didn’t stop his attack. This close, his scent was overwhelming, but now Steve could sense something wrong with it; a chemical kind of smell that he could practically taste.

“Come on Bucky,” Steve pleaded as Bucky aimed for him again. “Please!” He blocked a high kick with his forearm. “Bucky, stop! It’s me! It’s Steve!”

He didn’t know what changed, but Bucky faltered. That moment of hesitation was all Steve needed to turn the tables. He feigned a punch and dropped at the last second, sweeping Bucky’s legs out from beneath him. Steve scrambled to grab him around the neck and squeezed tight, cutting off Bucky’s airflow. His heart ached as Bucky thrashed in his grip, but he held firm, increasing pressure slowly and carefully until he felt Bucky’s body go limp and turn to dead weight in his arms.

Immediately, he felt for Bucky’s pulse, a wave of relief washing through him when he found it rapid, but strong. His head was filled with static, his normal ability to think through tactical situations gone. He had Bucky. Somehow, against all odds, improbably, _impossibly_ , he had Bucky. He needed to- to-

Upstairs. That was first. Get Bucky upstairs and out of the house and somewhere safe where he could-

Well he didn’t know yet, but that would come later. First, he had to get them out.

Pulling Bucky’s limp body up the stairs was a strain even for him. The stairway was too cramped to put Bucky over his shoulder, so he had to haul him up the slow way. Bucky was dressed head to toe in dark, combat gear, the clothing bulky in a way that suggested he was loaded down with weapons. Steve would have to relieve him of them until he was sure of what was going on. Once they were on level ground again, the going was easier. He moved quickly, Bucky now securely over his shoulder, until Steve could hear the din of the party again.

He stopped just outside a door that led into the one of the main rooms. Beyond it he could hear music and talking. He needed to find Natasha. She’d help him find somewhere safe to-

“I really wish you hadn’t gone down there.”

There was a quiet, metallic click behind him, and Steve froze before slowly turning. Pierce was standing there, the darkness of the room casting most of his face into shadow. There was nothing friendly about him now, his eyes cold and hard as he stared at Steve. He had a gun in his hand, cocked and pointing straight at Steve’s head, and suddenly something slotted into place, something he’d been avoiding thinking about since this all started. He felt cold, ice creeping along his veins and infiltrating his bones. He’d been so occupied with Bucky, with the impossibility of it all, that he hadn’t stopped to consider how the hell Bucky was here, in Pierce’s house. Or why.

But now, with Pierce in front of him, Steve felt a white-hot flare of rage in his belly, because at the very least Pierce had been hiding Bucky for god knows how long, and at the worst…. Steve didn’t really want to think about the worst.

“If it’s any consolation,” Pierce said, stepping forward. The barrel of the gun was a great, yawning black hole, and Steve unconsciously tightened his hold on Bucky. “I am truly sorry about this.”

Somehow Steve had trouble believing the sincerity of that statement. 

Pierce said something, the word foreign and harsh. Steve barely had time to recognize it as possibly some form of Russian before there was a sudden, blinding pain in his ribs. Bucky moved fast, nearly taking Steve down as he started fighting with renewed force. He must have woken at some point and laid still, waiting for the moment to strike. Steve fended off blows, blocking and ducking, reluctant once again to hit him.

“Stop!” Steve tried in vain. But it had no effect. Bucky was moving with a single-minded, animalistic purpose. Steve caught a glimpse of Pierce over Bucky’s shoulder, looking calm and supremely unruffled as he spoke into a phone, before another kick caught Steve in the side, slamming him into the wall so hard that the drywall cracked beneath him.

Nothing about this made sense, Steve thought as he dodged a fist. The hit buried Bucky’s fist in the wall, but it didn’t even seem to phase him. How was he doing this? Not only was he holding his own with Steve, he was gaining ground, forcing Steve onto the defensive. He needed to get close again, to knock Bucky out, but he was beginning to realize that he’d been lucky to get that chance down in the basement.

“Please!” he tried again, screaming the word in frustration. “Bucky, it’s me!”

“Stop calling me that!”

It was the first thing he’d heard Bucky say, and the exhilaration he felt at hearing that voice, the one he thought he’d never hear again, crashed over him like a wave. He stumbled for a moment, his inner alpha calling out for his mate, as his body and mind fought. He didn’t want to hurt Bucky. Had to... had to stop him, but even the thought of it hurt him.

“Bucky,” he started again, but Bucky snapped, snarling at him, his face cold and nearly unrecognizable as he pulled a gun from a holster at his waist. Steve grabbed a nearby coffee table, upending it and sending its contents crashing to the floor as he barely got up in time to catch the first bullet. Wood splintered and cracked, and Steve could only be thankful that the table was real wood and not cheap particle board. But still, it wouldn’t work for long.

“Please stop,” Steve said desperately. He could still hear the party, nothing more than a wall separating them from a room full of innocent people. “You’re going to hurt someone!”

There was the click of an empty magazine, and Steve tossed aside the ruined table. He lunged forward, prepared to take Bucky down any way he had to now. It seemed Bucky had the same idea. The two of them hit each other with all the force of two colliding semi-trucks. Steve grunted as the air was knocked out of him, and the two of them crashed through the door, landing sprawled out on the shiny, hardwood floor.

He hadn’t quite regained his breath when Bucky scrambled up and away, another gun drawn in the blink of an eye, the barrel leveled at Steve. He rolled to the side as bullets struck the floor around him, sending up sprays of wood splinters. Someone screamed, then another person, and another as the bullets flew. The volume in the room ramped up ten-fold as people started to panic and run, trying to get away from the gunfire. Steve clambered to his feet as people surrounded him, pushing and jostling. Steve lost sight of Bucky as he disappeared into the crowd. People’s scents were amplified with fear, alpha and beta and omega mixing together, masking Bucky’s scent and making it impossible for Steve to track.

“Bucky!” he called frantically.

Another shot rang out as people rushed past him. Someone was going to get hurt. “That way!” Steve yelled, directing the crowd of panicked partygoers towards the front door and away from the spot where he’d last seen Bucky. “Go that way!”

“Rogers!”

Steve turned and saw Rumlow. He still stank of booze, but looked blessedly more sober than he had the last time they’d crossed paths. At this point, Steve didn’t care either way. “We need to get these people out of here,” he said quickly. “There’s something going on with Pierce. I’ll explain later, but for now I need you to gather the team and clear the house and grounds.”

Rumlow huffed a laugh, and Steve stopped in his tracks. “You know,” Rumlow said, his tone light and conversational. He was holding one of the stun batons that all members of the strike teams carried in his right hand. Steve didn’t know how he’d missed it. Rumlow spun the baton casually as he spoke. “I’d say I’m sorry for this, Cap. But I’m really not.”

He made a sudden charge towards him that Steve sidestepped at the last minute. Not fast enough. Rumlow’s baton caught him on the calf, electricity thrumming through him like a lightning bolt. Steve screamed. His body was on fire, a thousand million sparks were bursting beneath his skin as his nerves burned. And then, in an instant, it was gone, his muscles still twitching from the aftershocks as he struggled to right himself.

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Rumlow said gleefully. There was a wildly deranged look in his eyes as he held the baton aloft and edged closer. “You sanctimonious prick.”

Steve realized then that he was alone in this. First Pierce, now Rumlow. What about his team? They could all be compromised. He’d seen things like this before. Corruption that started at the top and spread through an organization like a cancer. His breath caught in his throat as he thought of Natasha. _No_ , he told himself. Not her. He refused to believe that.

Rumlow darted at him again, and this time Steve was smart. He dove to the side, tucking his legs in and making himself as small a target as possible. He landed hard, his hands immediately grabbing for the closest, heavy thing he could find. It wasn’t difficult. The fleeing party guests had left the room in shambles, tables and chairs overturned, broken wine glasses sparkling merrily among the mess. His fingers quickly found an abandoned plate, still sticky with the remnants of some sort of sauce, and hurled it towards Rumlow.

The plate didn’t pack quite the same punch as his shield, but it did the job all the same. The heavy ceramic hit Rumlow solidly, cracking and falling to the ground in pieces as Rumlow roared in pain. The baton skittered across the floor and Steve kicked it away as he rushed forward, catching Rumlow with a knee to the diaphragm. Rumlow hit the floor with a loud _oof_ , the wind knocked out of him and blood streaming from a gash above one eye. A quick punch to the temple and he was out; would be for a few minutes at least.

Steve straightened up, looking around, mind already running in a million different places as he made his way quickly from room to room. The house was empty now, music still playing in the background, a soundtrack to the macabre scene of chaos left behind. In the distance he could hear the pop of gunfire. More than just one, and Steve wondered who else had joined the fray. He ran through the rooms, vaulting over fallen furniture, glass crunching underfoot. Bucky. He had to find Bucky.

As he passed one of the large, ornate windows that looked out onto the immaculate lawn, something caught his eye. It was dark now, the sun had fully set, but the bright flare of a muzzle flash was impossible to mistake. There were shapes, people, running in the darkness as the gunfire continued. Steve thought he saw two of his men run by, and his stomach twisted anew with the betrayal.

Someone groaned and Steve’s attention snapped away from the window, his eyes immediately searching out the source of the noise. There was a man on the ground. He looked like he’d tried to crawl beneath an overturned table for safety. Steve rushed to the man’s side and dropped down to his knees. He was middle-aged, hair just starting to thin at the crown of his head, his green eyes wide with fear as he stared at Steve. A bullet had torn a hole through the bottom of his lapel, and Steve immediately stripped off his own jacket, bunching the material up and pressing it to the wound.

“It’s going to be alright,” Steve told him, doing his best to keep his voice calm and measured, even if just right now he felt anything but. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Steve!”

“Sam!” A wave of relief flooded through him at his friend’s voice. “Sam, it’s Pierce,” he said as Sam skidded to a stop beside him before joining Steve down on the floor. “It’s him- it’s all of them, I don’t know, he’s-“

“Go.” Sam’s hands were quick and nimble as he took over, pushing Steve aside as he held pressure on the man’s wound. “I got this.”

Steve hesitated for just a second, and Sam said again, _“Go.”_

Steve nodded and quickly climbed to his feet. Bucky was outside, and that was where Steve needed to be. He could hear voices, muffled yelling and cursing, and he followed the noise to a set of French doors that opened onto the patio. He burst through them, nearly taking them off their hinges with the force of his movement. Outside was lit with garden lamps and fairy lights, their glow making a soft halo around the patio and garden. At any other time, it would have been lovely, but now the incongruous smell of gunpowder filled the air and wine from tipped glasses pooled on the ground like blood.

Having learned his lesson the hard way the first time around, Steve stayed light on his feet, moving quickly and quietly through the night. The plush, green lawn absorbed the sound of his steps as he kept his ears trained for anything that might lead him in Bucky’s direction. The lawns were as elaborate as the house, and he made his way past rose beds and carefully trimmed hedges as he went. He’d just skirted round the edge of a rack of fireworks, set for a display, when there was the crack of gunfire and rush of air as a bullet whizzed past him.

This time he was ready. He’d been caught off guard enough times tonight for a lifetime. Even once was one too many for his liking. Before the noise had faded, Steve was already running towards it, body low to the ground as he slammed into someone. His nose filled with that scent, that wonderful, awful, impossible scent. His inner alpha screamed at him that this was _wrong wrong wrong_. It was Bucky. Steve was supposed to protect him, not hurt him. He gritted his teeth against the instinct to stop, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist and taking him to the ground. They tumbled through the grass, grappling, as the clatter of the wooden racks of fireworks crashing down around them filled Steve’s ears and brightly colored projectiles scattered across the ground.

The gun went off again as they wrestled, so close to Steve’s head that it momentarily deafened him. His hand found Bucky’s, and he came down with all his strength on Bucky’s wrist, forcing the gun to drop from his grasp. Bucky, apparently undeterred by the loss of his weapon, instead levied a punch to Steve’s head that he was almost certain cracked his cheekbone.

Steve’s ears rang and he shook his head violently, trying to get rid of the feeling, waiting for the sound to fade out and die away. But it didn’t. Something exploded nearby with all the force of a gunshot, but not right at all. Another explosion went off and another. _The fireworks_ , Steve realized. They had been on a timer. He looked up just as another one burst in front of him, spewing blue and red sparks along the ground. Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. Fireworks continued to go off around them as they fought, bursts of color, red and blue fountains, sprays of white and gold and silver. And all of it far, _far_ too close for comfort.

Bucky fought like a man possessed, scratching and clawing and kicking. For every hit that Steve managed to land, Bucky landed one to return. The fireworks were like claps of thunder, punctuating each punch and kick as they moved back and forth. Another crack of thunder split the air, and suddenly there was a searing pain in Steve’s side, so intense that he felt bile in the back of his throat and he had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. Even Steve’s serum-enhanced body was beginning to feel the fatigue of this fight. Bucky seemed tireless though, a machine. He had to end this, and end it quickly. 

“Stop!” he yelled, anger and fear welling up inside as he caught a punch aimed for his throat. “I don’t want to hurt you! Please don’t make me hurt you.”

Bucky answered with a snarling growl as he brought a knee up, catching Steve neatly in the ribs.

“Please,” Steve continued, breathless but determined. “Please, Bucky, just stop and we can figure this out.”

“I said stop calling me that!” Bucky shouted. He dove for Steve’s legs, and the ferocity of the attack knocked Steve off his feet. His back slammed into the hard ground as he struggled to regain his breath. Bucky climbed on top of him, and his hands wrapped around Steve’s throat like an iron vice. Steve tried in vain to throw Bucky off, but he was solidly pinned down. He tucked his chin, trying to cut off Bucky’s access to his throat, but it was too late and Bucky had too good a grip. Black spots danced in Steve’s vision as Bucky pressed down.

“Please,” he choked out, unsure of what he was going to say beyond pleading for... for what? The Bucky that he knew and not this hard, deadly stranger? Steve tried to speak again, but Bucky’s thumbs dug in hard. The black spots in his vision grew and fused together, his vision tunneling until all he could see were Bucky’s eyes, hidden beneath a curtain of dark hair, cold and harsh and wholly unfamiliar.

And then the pressure vanished. Steve took in a great, gulping breath of air as Bucky’s hand loosened around his throat and he slumped down.

“Bucky?” Steve said, panicked, as he scrambled to get out from under Bucky’s dead weight. His throat felt like he’d been chewing on sandpaper, crackly and grating, and his breath still came in wheezing gasps. He flipped Bucky over, running his hands down Bucky’s chest and abdomen, searching for something, but there was nothing, no bullets, no blood, no- “Fuck,” Steve said. “Fuck, fuck fuck-“

Then he saw it, half hidden by Bucky’s dark hair. A tiny dart stuck in the skin of his neck, a sleek little thing no bigger than a sewing needle. Steve knew from experience that despite its size, the sedative it carried could take down a fully grown elephant.

“I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you for saving my ass, Natasha’.”

“Thank you, Nat.” His words were more than sincere as he looked up at her. In this position, she towered over him, as elegant as she was frightening in her evening gown, pistol drawn and her gear strapped to her wrists.

“Saw Rumlow,” she said, her eyes still fixed out into the darkness, looking for possible threats. The look on her face told Steve enough.

“Any clue what the fuck’s going on?” he asked her.

Her mouth was a tense line. “I’ve got a few guesses. We can talk about them after we get out of here.”

Steve glanced back at the house. From here, everything looked normal. Nothing to indicate that all hell had broken loose in a matter of a few minutes. Frustration welled within him, the anger that had been simmering under the surface since he’d first seen Bucky down in that basement threatening to spill over. He wanted to march back into that house and demand answers from Pierce, Rumlow, and whomever else he could get hands on.

A thought occurred to him as he glared at the house, like his thoughts alone might summon Pierce to him. “Sam,” he said, jumping to his feet. “He’s-“

“Waiting for us with a car.”

Steve nodded, relief washing over him that Sam, at least, was safe. He stooped down and grabbed Bucky under the arms, hauling him up. As tired as Steve was, Bucky’s unconscious body seemed to weigh at least two tons.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. “Taking hostages isn’t normally your style, Rogers.”

“He’s coming with us,” Steve said brusquely.


	3. Chapter 3

“What is this place?”

Steve’s own voice sounded strange to his ears after the tense silence of the car ride. Sam had sped through the streets of DC, hands held so tightly to the steering wheel that his knuckles had gone pale, while Natasha had watched the cars around them, pistol at the ready. Steve had spent the entire ride with Bucky’s head on his lap, running his hands through Bucky’s sweat-damp hair while his brain played tug-of-war with his memories, trying to reconcile the man he remembered and this stranger asleep in his lap.

Sam pulled the door shut behind them, plunging them into momentary darkness before the small flashlight in his hand kicked on. “VA just bought the property to renovate. Eventually we’re gonna house vets here, but for now, home sweet home,” he replied.

Steve looked around quickly. The flashlight gave off a scant circle of light that barely illuminated the four of them. Shadows stretched to fill the vacant corners of the lobby. The apartment building was old, run-down, and in a less-traversed part of town, but he still wasn’t about to let his guard down.

“Who knows about it?” he asked.

“You two. Me,” Sam shrugged. “A handful of guys at work. The sale was just finalized a few days ago.”

At this point, Steve was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t tell if the pit in his stomach was from some sort of gut feeling about their temporary hideout or just general dread. He looked at Natasha and found her eyes already on him. She nodded.

“Good,” Steve said. “Thank you, Sam.”

“First few floors are a wreck,” Sam continued, sweeping the beam of his flashlight through the empty space, illuminating stacks of drywall and cans of paint. There was a fluffy bundle of insulation where the front desk had probably once stood, and several walls were down to the studs. “But we haven’t started upstairs yet.”

Steve shifted on his feet. Bucky was heavy and Steve was exhausted. There was a headache building behind his eyes, dull and throbbing, and his nostrils were congested with dried blood. The injury to his side had settled into a burning, pulsing kind of pain, and serum or not, he was threatening to fall asleep on his feet.

“No chance the elevator works?” he asked wearily.

Sam grimaced and shook his head. Steve bit back a groan.

Sam and Nat took pity on him, and between the three of them they managed to haul Bucky up three flights of stairs and into one of the empty units. The apartment was every bit as run-down as the lobby had been, scuffed walls and paint peeling from the door frames. The floor was outdated, warped wooden boards coming loose in places, but somehow, despite the mess, it was peaceful. Moonlight streamed in through the uncovered windows, washing everything it touched with shimmery silver and blue. Under its touch, even the ugliest parts of the room were transformed into something ethereal. Another time or place maybe, and Steve would have been itching to get his hands on a set of watercolors to capture the subtle beauty of it. Now though, he just searched the moonlit room with tired eyes for the best place to lay Bucky down.

For a few blessed moments, after he’d carefully lowered Bucky to the floor and taken the time to let himself sink down into a sitting position with his back against the wall, there was silence. No sound invaded the quiet space but for the creaking of the settling foundation, and the occasional _tap-tap-tap_ of Natasha typing away on her burner phone. Hers was gone, tossed down a gutter grate with his and Sam’s, a countermeasure against tracking.

“The jet’s on its way,” she said finally. “And Tony says he’s getting things ready on his end.”

“Good.”

At the Tower, Steve could rest. Maybe even get a few minutes of sleep after they’d figured this whole thing out. And the added manpower wouldn’t hurt. Not that Natasha and Sam weren’t wonderful - they were, but the entire team together would get more done than just the three of them. Steve felt his eyelids start to drift closed as he thought despite his best efforts.

“So… anyone care to explain what the hell just happened back there?”

Steve forced his eyes open again, blinking against the dry, gritty feeling. Sam was looking at him for answers, his face curious but concerned. Natasha stared straight out the window with grim, pursed lips. Steve sighed.

“I don’t think Pierce is on our side,” he said finally.

“Pierce?” Sam’s mouth twisted into a frown. “You mean the Secretary?”

Steve nodded.

“The guy whose house just got trashed?” Sam looked incredulous. Steve didn’t blame him. He hadn’t exactly been expecting any of this either. “World security council. Friend of Nick Fury. That Pierce?”

Steve’s body protested as he re-adjusted, settling in for the uncomfortable conversation he sensed they were about to have. His body protested every movement, and his head pounded with his heartbeat. Quickly, he filled both of them in on what had happened that night; the hidden staircase, the underground rooms, and finding Bucky and their fight. He told them about Pierce leveling the gun at his head, about Rumlow’s betrayal, about seeing several members of his team with their fists raised against the wrong side. The only thing he left out was what had drawn him to the discovery in the first place. He didn’t know if he could, didn’t know how he _would_ , explain what had happened. He didn’t have the words to describe the overpowering, all-consuming drive that had pushed him forward.

There were a few terse questions from Natasha, and the occasional quiet muttering from Sam, but otherwise they kept silent until Steve had finished relaying the whole, unbelievable tale.

“Fuck,” Sam said succinctly when Steve had finally finished. “Fuck.”

Steve nodded and said, “Yeah,” for lack of a better response. Besides, Sam had pretty much summed up his own feelings on the matter anyway.

Bucky shifted in his sleep, his mouth twitching into a tight frown, the little furrow between his eyebrows growing deeper. Steve looked down in alarm at the sudden movement. At some point while he was talking, he’d pulled Bucky’s head onto his lap. He was almost surprised to find himself with his hand on Bucky’s head again, smoothing his hair with calming strokes. It was an afterthought, a movement so natural that he hadn’t even registered the change. His body had a mind of its own it seemed, unable to resist seeking out the touch of Bucky’s skin, even now.

“I’m guessing that’s also a long story,” Sam said, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky’s sleeping form.

Steve’s hand faltered for a moment before he tangled his fingers into Bucky’s dark hair, gently working out knots. “It is.”

Sam’s eyebrow stayed raised. At the window, the jut of Natasha’s hip as she folded her arms across her chest told Steve everything he needed to know before she’d even opened her mouth to say it.

“I... I know him,” he started hesitantly. He looked down again. In sleep, Bucky looked peaceful. Gentle. So much like the man who Steve had known that his heart ached in his chest. He just couldn’t reconcile the quiet man across his lap with the crazed person who’d tried his damndest to kill him less than an hour ago.

“You’ve fought him before?” Natasha asked.

“No,” Steve shook his head, unsure how to say this in a way that didn’t make him sound crazy. But then again, nothing about this entire evening had been sane. “I knew him. Before.” The twin looks of confusion on their faces might have been hilarious in any other situation. “ _My_ before.”

And this time even Natasha looked taken aback, which was a feat unto itself.

“Your before,” she repeated carefully. “As in World War II?”

“And before,” Steve continued quietly. “When we were... We grew up together. Bu-“ The name stuck in Steve’s throat, which was suddenly dry, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth as he struggled. Beneath his hand, he could feel rhythmic bursts of warm air as Bucky breathed in and out, in and out. “Bucky,” he finally forced out. “His name is Bucky.”

Sudden recognition flickered on Sam’s face as he looked between Bucky and Steve. “Bucky Barnes? As in Howling Commandos, fought in World War II, learned about him in my eighth grade history class- that Bucky Barnes? _How?_ ”

Steve sighed and rubbed at his eyes, trying to ease the ache in his head. “I don’t know.”

Natasha looked at him sharply. “Are you sure it’s really him?”

 _“Yes.”_ The word was out of Steve’s mouth before he’d even really processed the question. It was Bucky. He knew it down to the marrow of his bones.

“It’s not possible,” she said, more to herself than to either of them. Her shoulders were tight with tension.

“The serum?” Sam interjected quietly.

Steve shook his head. It was a thought he’d already had and discarded. “They never were able to reproduce Erskine’s formula. I was the only one who got it.”

“That we know of,” Sam continued for him. Steve raised his eyebrows at the implication and Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, like the US government would be chomping at the bit to let people know they had the serum.”

“Even if they did,” Steve said, “there’s no way they could have given it to him. He was in Azzano when I got it, and then we were all over Europe. We never stayed in one place long enough. I would have noticed. And after that…”

And after that had been the train and the ice. He swallowed heavily, fighting the sudden urge to shiver.

“After that, what?” Sam asked. Natasha nudged Sam with her foot and he shot her a bewildered look.

“ _After that_ I dropped a plane into the Atlantic,” Steve finished.

Sam grimaced, looking like he greatly regretted his words. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah. _That_ ,” Steve said dryly.

“What do you think happened to him then?” Natasha said, thankfully ending any awkward silences before they had the chance to begin.

Steve’s hand slowed, his fingers gripping at Bucky’s hair. Steve felt like his heart might crack in two, but he held it back, trying to keep his face neutral. Like he wasn’t falling apart on the inside, like he hadn’t been screaming the same question in his head every time he glanced at Bucky’s face. Even asleep, Bucky looked tired. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Steve hated that he didn’t know when that had happened.

Natasha started to pace, her brow furrowed in thought. “We need more information.” She paused mid-stride. “I need to talk to Nick.”

And now Steve was the one that had to question. “How do we know that Nick’s not-“

“Don’t.” Her face was a warning, storm clouds brewing behind her green eyes, her lips a grim line.

“Nat,” he said, as gently as he could. “We have to consider-“

“No,” she said, and the finality of her tone brokered no argument. She must have seen the doubt in his eyes because she repeated it again with emphasis. _“No.”_

Steve hesitated. He knew he should argue it. It was a risk to trust anyone right now. He didn’t know who was on their side and who was with Pierce. But she’d trusted him and brought Bucky along with no explanation. The least he could do was trust her enough to repay the favor. “Alright,” he started. “Just...“ He paused. It wasn’t like there was any advice he could give her that she didn’t already know. “Alright,” he finished quietly.

The relative silence of the vacant apartment building was suddenly broken by a noise from somewhere outside. A sudden tornado whipped around the building, rattling the glass in the windows, getting louder with each passing second as a huge thump shook the foundation, the floor shaking as something large and heavy settled on the roof.

Natasha looked up, as if she could see through the ceiling out to the night sky above. “Quinjet’s here.”

Steve nearly groaned aloud with relief. It wasn’t a long flight from DC to New York, barely 40 minutes by commercial airline and less than half that with the jet, but at least it was 20 minutes that he might be able to rest. He carefully lifted Bucky’s head from his lap, careful not to let him hit the floor as Steve willed his exhausted body to work for another few precious minutes. He hissed sharply as he stood, the wound in his side like a knife stabbing between his ribs.

He relied on Sam and Nat more than he would have liked to help him pull Bucky up the final flight of stairs and out onto the roof. His back and shoulders screamed their displeasure at him as he grit his teeth against the burn of his muscles. He was uncomfortably out of breath when they stopped; the rasp of his lungs as he sucked in the cool air reminded him painfully of the winters he’d spent in Brooklyn as a boy. For a moment, he imagined himself as small and sick again, and the feeling twisted in his gut and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Outside, it was the chaos. The noise of Quinjet’s engines was deafening in the quiet night. This wouldn’t go unnoticed for much time at all, if any. They needed to hurry.

“Take this.” Natasha had to shout to be heard above the boom of the engines. Her dress whipped around her legs and her hair shook loose from its tie as the wind buffeted them on the rooftop. She pressed something into Steve’s hands; a small, sleek black capsule. “Bruce designed it for the Hulk. I don’t know how he’ll react, but if his metabolism is anything like yours, it should at least keep him out for a while.”

Steve closed his fingers around the capsule, gripping it tightly as it slowly dawned on him. “You’re not coming with us.”

How Sam could possibly hear them over the roar of the jet, Steve had no idea. “You can’t stay here!” he shouted. “It’s not safe!”

She flashed Sam a smile, dangerous and charming and so very Natasha. “Thanks for the concern, but I can look out for myself.”

“But-“

Steve interrupted him, laying a hand on Sam’s arm. Sam immediately fell silent, though the look on his face was unhappy. “Take care of yourself,” Steve told her, letting go of Sam’s arm to hold out a hand to her. To his surprise, she ignored and stepped forward instead, enveloping him in a tight hug. The night air stirred up by the jet was cold, made all the colder by the circumstances, but Natasha was warm and Steve allowed himself to be comforted for the moment by the lavender-smoke alpha scent of her.

“I always do,” she told him seriously, pulling back. She nodded at Sam, and then said quietly, her voice pitched for Steve alone, “Keep an eye on that one. I like him.”

Steve couldn’t help his sudden grin. “I thought you might.”

She kissed him on the cheek, her lips soft against his skin. “Stay safe boys.” She tossed them a casual salute as she stepped away, though her face was deadly serious. “I’ll find out what I can.”


	4. Chapter 4

Courtesy of SHIELD, and with some major renovations by Tony, the Quinjet was decked out with the best that money could buy, including a fully stocked and operational medical bay. With Sam’s help, Steve was able to lift Bucky up onto one of the beds, although he nearly bit through his lip with the strain on his injured side.

“Thanks,” he said, panting as he waved a grateful hand in Sam’s direction.

Sam was already looking around, fascinated with the interior of the jet. “Who’s gonna fly this thing?”

Steve realized belatedly that this was Sam’s first time inside the Quinjet. He remembered being impressed (and largely overwhelmed) the first time he’d set foot inside. Somewhere along the way, after a little more than a year of missions, this place had become like a second home.

“Autopilot,” he answered. As if the jet was listening in on their conversation, Steve felt the tiniest shift of the floor beneath his feet as they took off straight upwards from the roof, guided by the jet’s unique propulsion system.

“Huh,” Sam said simply. “You guys really go all out, don’t you?”

“SHIELD,” Steve said with a short laugh. “Or Tony, I suppose. Not that I’m complaining,” he added.

He felt guilty as soon as the laughter left him, something in his alpha brain telling him it was wrong wrong _wrong_ to be laughing when his mate was hurt. Steve flinched and looked down at Bucky. Lying on the bed, Bucky was dead still. So much so that Steve couldn’t resist the urge to put a hand on his chest, to check to see if he was still breathing. He could barely feel it, the slight rise and fall of Bucky’s chest beneath his fingers. The relief he felt with each expansion of Bucky’s lungs was palpable; he wondered if this was how Bucky had felt before, in the days when he’d had to be the one to check if _Steve_ was breathing. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Bucky’s tac shirt. In Steve’s pocket, the sedative was like an anchor, threatening to pull him to the floor.

Sam cleared his throat conspicuously and Steve snapped his head back up. “Any chance of something more comfortable?” Sam asked, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. There was blood on the sleeves, and his suit was rumpled and dirty from the fight. Steve wasn’t much better, jacket long gone and his tie in shreds, the smell of burnt fabric lingering faintly in the air. Dried blood from his nose flecked the front of his shirt. “I’m not exactly feeling dressed for success here.”

“I think there’s some clothes of Clint’s that might fit you,” Steve said, happy to have a definitive task to latch onto, instead of just that helpless, sinking feeling.

With one last glance at Bucky, Steve led Sam out of the medical bay and into the storage area. The walls here were lined with lockers labeled with the symbols of each of the Avengers. There were racks of spare equipment, coils of rope, extra comms equipment; every conceivable thing they could possibly need for a mission, and quite a bit they would probably never need, but that hadn’t stopped Tony from supplying them anyway. Steve opened Clint’s locker. Ignoring the bundles of arrows and extra fletching, he pushed aside a quiver to rifle through the man’s clothes. Clint and Sam were just about the same height, and hopefully Clint wouldn’t begrudge the emergency appropriation of his clothes.

He ended up finding a pair of black athletic pants and a soft purple shirt. He tossed them to Sam before grabbing a pair of jeans and a button down from his own locker. He was more than happy to rid himself of his suit, tired of the smell of gunpowder and the memories it always managed to dredge up. 

They dressed in silence, and with every item that Steve shed, he felt immeasurably lighter. A shower would have done him good as well, but at the very least, the new clothes felt like a step in the right direction. The weight gradually began to settle back onto his shoulders as he let his thoughts drift across the jet to Bucky. Only the sudden lance of pain through his torso as he tugged at his ruined shirt pulled him from his thoughts. Gingerly, he twisted to look at his side, hissing as the movement stretched the broken skin.

“Let me look at that.”

Steve paused, clean shirt still clutched in his hands as Sam spoke. “I’ll be fine-“ he started automatically.

“Do not,” Sam held up a hand to stop him, the look on his face weary with exasperation. Steve recognized that expression. People had been giving it to him his entire life. “Do not start with that stoic, manly bullshit. Pull up your shirt.”

Steve knew a lost argument when he saw one. Carefully, he plucked the hem between his fingers and peeled the shirt upwards, and charred fabric and skin came away with it. Sam shepherded him to the medical bay, and all but shoved him onto the bed beside Bucky.

“Lay down,” he ordered Steve sternly as he began to rifle through drawers and cabinets, stacking what useful supplies he found on the nearby table. When he was finally satisfied, he turned back to Steve, taking a closer look at his side. Sam let out a long, low whistle as he inspected the burns. “He did a number on you, didn’t he.”

“Yeah, fireworks and skin don’t mix,” Steve said by way of explanation. His sarcasm was undercut by the involuntary gasp of pain that escaped him when Sam pressed on his injured side.

After pulling on a pair of sterile gloves, Sam held up a small vial of clear liquid. Anesthetic, and just a local one at that. “Should I?” he asked.

Steve shook his head regretfully. “Won’t help. Just go for it. It’ll start to heal once it’s clean.”

“This is going to sting,” Sam warned him, hands already busy gathering sterile water and antiseptic.

Steve nodded and closed his eyes as Sam went to work, and _wow_ , sting was an understatement. He’d been hurt more times than he liked to count, and the serum had proven itself against all manner of injuries, from paper cuts to bullet holes. But burns were relatively new to him, and wholly unpleasant. But still, he reminded himself as he struggled to keep his body still as he automatically twisted away from the source of pain, he’d had worse. And falling apart wasn’t exactly an option right now.

“Fuck,” Steve hissed as Sam pulled away a large chunk of barely-recognizable fabric.

Even the calming scent of beta did nothing to ease Steve’s nerves, even though he could tell Sam was trying his hardest. Steve clenched his fists so hard he wondered if his nails had broken skin as he turned his head towards the bed beside him. Bucky looked impossibly small and fragile in the stark overhead light. Steve felt his stomach turn and bile rise in his throat, the combination of mental and physical stress culminating in a sweeping wave of nausea.

“So that’s Bucky Barnes, huh?”

 _God bless Sam Wilson_ , Steve thought. His breath was caught in his throat, but Sam had pulled him back from the brink of panic, and Steve was eternally grateful for it. He cleared his throat, coughing hard as he tried to refocus his thoughts.

“They really teach about him in schools now?”

Sam smiled. “All of you. We spent a whole unit on the Howling Commandos at my school. Had to write a report and everything.

Steve barked a laugh. “God, he would have loved that.” He paused, looking at Bucky’s bruised face. “ _Will_ love that.”

“It’s gotta be weird, man.” Again, Sam to the rescue as Steve stumbled over his own words. “Kids reading in their history books about you. Museum exhibits full of your stuff. And all those crappy movies from the 80s.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve said with a quiet laugh. “I kind of enjoyed the one with Harrison Ford.” He grunted as Sam’s hands passed over his tender ribs. “Although I don’t think I was ever quite that cool.”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a grin. “That one wasn’t bad.”

Steve sighed. He’d been unsure what to think about all the attention when he’d come out of the ice. He was already used to the constant recognition from before. After all, speaking to the press had been the bread and butter of his work as Captain America before they’d let him out into the field for real. But the sheer amount of _stuff_ that existed now was overwhelming. Comic books and toys, cartoons and statues, and a frankly alarming number of awful movies. He’d watched only a few of them, more out of a burning desire to see anything that resembled something he might remember. To date, none of them had gotten anywhere close to the truth.

“They got Bucky all wrong though.”

“Hmm,” Sam hummed distractedly as he worked. “Who played him again?”

Steve shook his head and immediately regretted it as the headache that had taken up residence behind his eyes reared its ugly head again. “I’m not sure. They were blonde though. Short. More like the old me than Bucky, to be honest.”

Sam paused and looked over at Bucky, whose dark hair was a stark contrast to his pale skin. “Hollywood’s never been all that concerned with fact checking.”

“It’s not about accuracy anyway,” Steve said, wincing as more antiseptic hit his raw skin. “More - _ow_ \- the message they’re trying to get across, I suppose. The symbol of Captain America has always mattered more than the man. Or, men,” he added.

Sam was silent for a moment. “Well, I certainly can’t speak for the rest of the world,” he finally said. “But I care about the man. I’ll take Steve Rogers over Captain America anyday.”

Steve blinked rapidly, ignoring the little traces of wetness at the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry,” Sam said quietly, never one to miss even the smallest of things. “It can’t be easy.”

“No, no,” Steve replied quickly, waving a hand. “Don’t say sorry. I just... it used to bother me more, I think.” He sighed and gave Sam a rueful smile. “I guess this night’s just been a lot.”

Sam gave him a look that Steve couldn’t read, and to be honest, he was just grateful it hadn’t been pity. He didn’t know if he could have handled that right now. “You ever regret it?” Sam asked. “Giving it all up for your country.”

Steve couldn’t help himself. His eyes were drawn back to Bucky like a magnet. He breathed in deeply, the scent of his mate flooding his nostrils. He could still make out a chemical undertone to it, metallic and acrid. He didn’t answer.

After a moment, Sam said in a lighter tone, “That statue in Central Park must drive you crazy, right? The bare-chested one.”

Steve laughed, a tad too hard for the situation, but necessary to drive the darkness away. “If I could get away with convincing people it was an accident, I would knock that thing down in a heartbeat.”

Sam snorted in amusement. He’d finished cleaning Steve’s side and was now applying some kind of gel that felt blessedly cool against Steve’s heated skin.

“Is this,” Steve waved a hand vaguely to indicate everything that had happened, “gonna get you in trouble with your job?”

Sam made a face and shook his head. “Nah. If they can’t give me a few days off to help Captain America, then it’s not somewhere I wanna work anyway.”

“Need me to put in a good word?”

“As much fun as that would be-“ Sam patted Steve’s newly bandaged side lightly, and then stripped off his gloves. He bundled them into a little ball and managed to land them perfectly into the trash. “This is probably one of those things I should do on my own.” This time it was Sam’s turn to sigh as he glanced at his watch. “No time like the present. Someone should still be at the office. You okay here for a minute?”

“It’ll be tough, but I think I can manage,” Steve said, dead-pan, as Sam rolled his eyes.

Sam left for the cockpit and its phone. The sleek, silver door slid shut behind him and Steve was left in the relative quiet of the medical bay. He could faintly make out the steady sound of Bucky breathing over the quiet hum of the engines. The sound settled something deep within him, something that felt like it had been off-kilter since he’d watched Bucky fall from the train. Carefully, Steve rolled off the bed, avoiding his bandaged side. He could already feel the serum working to knit his skin back together. He badly wished that he could just sleep through the worst of it; he always seemed to heal faster when he slept. 

He’d had purpose as he stood and strode to Bucky’s bedside, but now he faltered, his hand hovering just above Bucky’s. It didn’t make sense, his sudden hesitation. He’d been touching Bucky all night in one way or another, but this felt different than a punch, different than carrying him up the stairs. It was… terrifying. Steve almost laughed when, with a sudden crystal-clear clarity, he realized exactly what he was feeling. He was scared. And of what?

 _That this isn’t real_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully. That he would touch Bucky and it wouldn’t be him. That all of this was an illusion; a fragile, spun-glass fantasy that could shatter at the slightest touch.

For a moment, he was drowning in the panic, his breath coming in fits and bursts. But Steve Rogers had never been one to let fear rule him before, and he certainly refused to start letting it now. Before he had another chance to second guess himself, he reached down and grasped the hand that lay still at Bucky’s side, and…

He couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling. Steve hurriedly stripped off the black glove that covered Bucky’s left hand, and pushed up the sleeve of his black tac shirt. _Metal_. Bucky’s hand and arm were made of shiny, silver metal, overlapping plates that shivered under his touch like real skin. Steve stroked a finger cautiously across the polished surface, his fingertips finding the seams and grooves between the plating. The metal was hard, but warm. He felt it out like a blind person might, as if he could learn through mere touch exactly what had happened. How had Bucky ended up like this? Who had done this to him? Steve felt sick at the thought of it as he traced Bucky’s arm up to where it disappeared beneath the sleeve of his shirt. How far up did it go? How much of Bucky had been taken, how much had been lost and replaced? And in his mind, the constant question of _why why why_ screamed through it all.

“Steve?”

Sam was at the doorway again, call apparently completed. He looked concerned, and Steve suddenly wondered how long he’d been standing there. His throat worked as he tried to respond, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. His fingers shook where they grasped the sleeve of Bucky’s shirt.

“We’re about to land,” Sam said, brow furrowed.

Right. Landing. The jet. The Tower.

Steve’s brain came slowly back on-line, systems lighting up one by one as his thoughts struggled to organize themselves. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away. Letting go of Bucky felt a bit like jumping off of a cliff. He wasn’t sure where exactly they’d land when all this was over.

“Alright,” he nodded, straightening up. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Tower was chaos. After the muted atmosphere of the jet, the bright lights and bustling activity of the Tower was almost an assault to Steve’s senses. No sooner had they stepped off the jet than there was a flurry of movement. People, who all worked for Tony or the Avengers in one ancillary way or another, rushed by, ferrying documents back and forth. A group of engineers converged on the jet as soon as it landed, refueling and performing maintenance. Steve couldn’t care less about any of it right now; he was anxious, his sense of threat gone into overdrive, his alpha brain able to focus on nothing else but his omega. In all these intervening years, he’d forgotten how fierce that instinct could be.

“Steve!” Tony said loudly. As he spoke, he was typing hurriedly on a tablet, not even bothering to look up until he was only inches away. It was so very _normal_ for him, on a night where nothing else had been, that Steve wanted to cry. “And this is…?”

“Sam Wilson.” While Steve had been lost in his own head, Sam had come up behind him and was now holding out a hand for Tony to shake. Tony blinked at Sam’s hand like he’d never seen one before.

“He doesn’t shake hands.” Clint joined the small group, shoving Tony aside to stick out his own hand in greeting. “Clint Barton,” he said, shaking Sam’s with a toothy grin. “Ignore Tony. We all do.”

“Bruce Banner.” The voice came from behind and Steve turned, surprised to see Bruce standing there. The last he’d heard, Bruce had been doing a stint as an adjunct lecturer at MIT. He was certainly here now though, exactly as Steve had last seen him, with his permanently rumpled appearance and untamed curls. “Nice to meet you,” Bruce said in a perfunctory way. “Where is he?”

Natasha had clearly called ahead and filled the others in. It was a blessing, really, because Steve didn’t think he could sit down and tell the entire story again if he tried. He just didn’t have the energy. Instead, he pointed up the ramp to the jet, which still yawned open wide in the large hangar. Bruce nodded and started towards the ramp, pushing what looked like a hospital gurney in front of him. At the last second, Steve grabbed him by the arm, and for a moment the two of them looked at each other. Steve was honestly as surprised as Bruce was at the movement.

The action had been so unplanned that he didn’t have any words to explain. When he was finally able to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, all that came out was, “Don’t…”

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was asking.

Bruce’s face was serious, the ever-present dark shadows under his eyes like bruises under the fluorescent lighting. “I’d like to think you know me better than that Steve.”

Steve immediately felt his face flush with shame. Of course. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, didn’t know if he’d even been _thinking_ at all.

“I’ll go with him.”

Sam stepped up beside Steve and laid a gentle hand on his, pulling it away from Bruce’s arm. And god, what had Steve ever done right in his life to deserve the friendship Sam fuckin’ Wilson.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said gratefully. He was still anxious, muscles still strung tight as piano wire, but he felt the tiniest bit of tension leak out of him.

“Oh, you think this is free?” Sam raised an eyebrow and smirked jokingly at him. “Nah, you owe me after this Rogers. I’m thinking maybe dinner with Nana Wilson. Lock in my position as the favorite grandson.”

Steve smiled despite himself. Sam nodded at him, just a tip of the head in his direction, before he turned to follow Bruce. Leaving Bucky in someone else’s hands still felt like ripping off a piece of himself, but it was easier like this, knowing that Sam would be watching over Bucky.

“What do we know?” Steve asked, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Bruce and Sam. He turned back to Tony and Clint, setting his face into as neutral an expression as he could manage. The sooner they were through here, the sooner he could get back to his mate.

“Same as you, right now,” Tony said grimly. Without bothering to wait, he set a quick pace out of the hangar and into the Tower proper. Steve kept stride beside him, with Clint following at their heels. “Oh,” Tony said, as they reached the elevator, “and this.”

He handed Steve a sleek, thin tablet. As the doors closed and the elevator began its swift descent, Steve glanced at the screen. It was set to a video on pause. He recognized the frozen image as Pierce’s mansion. Already dreading what he was about to see, he hit the playback button.

 _“Breaking news tonight,”_ the voice of a newscaster filled the small space. _“There’s been an attack at the home of Alexander Pierce, long-time DC politician and current Secretary of the World Security Council. The attack took place during a party being held to celebrate the 96th birthday of Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America. According to eyewitness accounts, the festivities were interrupted by fighting between several unidentified assailants. While the perpetrators are still unknown, we have received several reports of gunshots both in and around the property. Two people have been transported to a nearby hospital, one of whom is listed as in critical condition. More disturbingly, several partygoers reported seeing Captain America himself fleeing the premises, along with two unidentified companions. Secretary Pierce had this to say:”_

The image changed from the mansion to Pierce himself, his face filling the small screen. The fury Steve felt was like a sudden bolt of lightning, bright and hot. His fingers gripped the tablet so hard he was surprised he hadn’t shattered the glass. On the screen, Pierce looked as smooth and confident as ever. 

_“No, I don’t know where Captain Rogers might have gone, but I’m sure that whatever drew him away, he has a good reason. And wherever he is now, we can be rest assured that he is fighting to uncover who is behind this completely unwarranted attack on our nation’s leaders.”_

Steve fumed, a ball of white-hot rage forming in his gut as he forced himself to breathe steadily. In only a few words, Pierce had cast doubt on Steve’s motives. Even if people didn’t see it as such, the seeds were planted. His options were more limited now than they had been only seconds ago. The tide of public opinion could turn in a second; he’d seen it happen more than once.

Pierce disappeared again as the feed cut back to the reporter. “Captain America-“

Disgusted, Steve hit the power button on the tablet before handing it forcefully to Tony. The timing was perfect. No sooner had the tablet passed hands than the elevator slowed to a stop. The doors opened onto one of the main floors of the Tower that handled the day to day operations of the Avengers. Normally, it would have been dead at this time of the night, but tonight was an exception, it seemed. It was just as busy as the hangar had been, and Steve had to quickly sidestep as a woman juggling several boxes rushed past him into the now empty elevator.

“Yeah,” Tony said dryly, spinning the tablet in one hand, “I thought you might like that.”

“What the hell was that about?” Clint asked.

“Whatever it is,” Tony replied grimly. “It’s worth it to him to play dumb.”

He led them to a locked office. The panel at the door accepted each of their handprints before it would open, the heavy mechanical lock disengaging with a solid _thunk_. The room itself wasn’t large, but it was well furnished with a long table and several chairs.

“So how do we bring him out into the open on this?” Clint asked, flopping down into one of the sleek, leather-bound chairs.

“We don’t.” It physically hurt Steve to say the words, but even as he did he knew they were right. “Let him stay hidden. He can’t come after us in the public eye. People got hurt tonight. There were too many in the crossfire. So we let him keep pretending to be the good guy. Force him to come after us quietly. He can start all the rumours he wants, but any kind of attack on us would expose him instantly.”

“We can tie him up in red tape for years if we need to,” Tony grinned, and it was a sharp, predatory thing. “I know a few good lawyers.”

“And in the meantime we just, what, keep letting him get away with whatever he wants?” Clint said, more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“If we have to, yes,” Steve sighed. “Pierce is smart. He’s already got me pinned down. I go public now and people will want answers about where I went, and why. Like I said, the bigger we let this thing get, the more people will get sucked in.

“Speaking of,” Tony said, scooping up a folder from the table. He handed it off before taking a seat, perching directly on the table as he watched Steve, brown eyes intense.

“Paper?” Steve asked idly, taking the folder from Tony’s outstretched hand.

Tony raised his eyebrows in question.

“I didn’t even know you knew what a pen was,” Steve said with a shrug.

Tony made a face at him, exasperated and long-suffering. “ _Paper_ can’t be hacked. We’re tangling with a member of the World Security Council. This is a whole different ball game than what we’re used to.”

“What is this?” Steve asked as he flipped open the file.

“Everything we’ve got on Pierce,” Clint said grimly.

Steve couldn’t stifle the shock that he knew must have shown on his face. The file was thin, only a handful of papers at the most. “There’s nothing here.”

“Exactly,” Tony said. “No shady business dealings, no offshore accounts, no sex scandals. Not even a damn parking ticket. According to that file, he’s basically a modern-day Mother Theresa.”

Clint snorted with suppressed laughter.

“Then we’re missing something,” Steve said, closing the disappointing folder.

Tony gave him a look that clearly said Steve was an idiot. “Of course we’re missing something. I know politicians. You don’t get to where Pierce is without getting your hands dirty. Besides, you know what they say.” He paused, and then shrugged. “Actually I don’t know what they’d say in this situation. But you have to admit, that would have been a cool line.”

Steve’s feet moved of their own accord, pacing being just about the only thing he could do to expel his excess anxious energy. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair, sticking it on end. His brain was fried. He was hurt and confused and his body was trying to heal and he desperately needed a few hours of sleep.

“There’s something to find, Tony,” he insisted. “There’s got to be.” Again, the image of Bucky down in that basement flooded his mind.

“I’ll find out what he’s hiding,” Tony said. “It just might take a bit of time.”

The words provided little comfort, but it was enough at least to stop his nervous pacing. Steve rubbed the heels of both hands into eyes hard, little spots of color bursting into wild shapes in the darkness. “Thank you,” he finally said. There was more there, just on the tip of his tongue, but he was too tired to let any of it out.

“Well, if I’d known you were gonna get mushy about it, I wouldn’t have said anything at all,” Tony said, following it up with a quiet _‘ow’_ as Clint whacked him on the shoulder. “I’ve been attacked. In my own Tower.”

As Tony and Clint’s conversation devolved into ever-increasingly sarcastic comments, Steve’s thoughts drifted to Bucky. What was happening to him right now? His fingers itched with the desire to have his hand on Bucky’s again. He’d only had Bucky back for less than 24 hours, and already the absence of him was palpable; a vast, dark void in his chest.

“Steve.”

As if attuned to Steve’s thoughts, there was a knock on the door, accompanied by Sam’s voice.

Steve sprang to attention, practically ripping the door off its hinges in his eagerness to open it. “Is he okay?” he asked, the second they were face to face.

“He’s fine.” Sam’s face and voice were calm. Steve wished he were the same. “Bruce wants to talk to you.”

Steve was already halfway out the door before he remembered that he was leaving Tony and Clint behind. “Tony-“ he started.

Tony interrupted him, dismissing him with a flippant wave of the hand. “Go. We’ve got this part covered.” Then he paused, and that alone was rare for Tony. Normally, he seemed to lack a filter between his brain and his mouth, and the two of them had nearly come to blows more than once over it. “Are you ready for this, Steve?”

He didn’t have to think about the answer. It could only ever be one thing.

“Do it,” Steve said. “No matter what it takes. I want to take that son of a bitch down.”

==⍟==

The place that Sam led him was somewhere that Steve was already intimately familiar with. The medical area that served as a miniature hospital for the Avengers was as state of the art as the Quinjet. No expense had been spared on outfitting the series of sterile, white rooms with the latest in medical technology, some of it on the more experimental side. Steve himself had spent a disproportionate amount of time in this area in one form or another, either as the patient or as a visitor. But not once in all that time had he felt as sick as he did now.

They’d transferred Bucky to one of the hospital beds. His dark hair splayed out like an inky stain on the crisp white linens. It may have only been Steve’s protective alpha rearing its ugly head, but he felt like Bucky looked worse than when he’d last seen him. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones cut a shockingly sharp line across his face. Wire leads and tubes emerged from underneath the sheet that was pulled up to Bucky’s chin, linking him to a multitude of machines, none of which Steve knew the purpose of.

Beside the bed, Bruce was standing with his back towards them, fixated on a set of images displayed on the large bedside monitor. Steve turned his attention to the screen, and felt his eyes widen as he took them in. He stepped forward, reaching out and brushing his fingers along Bucky’s sheet as he did.

“Is that…?”

“Wild, isn’t it?” Bruce said, awe in his voice. Steve narrowed his eyes. Whatever he felt, looking at the scans of Bucky’s body, awe wasn’t it.

Bruce turned slightly and caught a glance of Steve’s face. “Sorry,” he said. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and then turned back to the scans, pointing out things as he spoke. “That arm is astounding. Whoever designed it was a bioengineering genius. I’ve never seen anything like it. See how it’s anchored, here and here?” He tapped the screen as he spoke, pointing at the stark black and white images of Bucky’s shoulder and torso. “I haven’t seen it in action obviously, but from what I can tell, it’s got all the range and functionality of a real arm.”

“That’s right,” Steve said stiffly.

“Amazing.” Bruce had a look of child-like wonder on his face, the same one he always got when Tony came up with some brand-new, shiny piece of tech. “Whoever put it on had to attach each individual nerve. The amount of work is just…” He trailed off, his brain clearly running miles ahead of his mouth.

Steve didn’t know that he’d call any of this amazing. On the x-ray, Bucky’s arm stood out in stark relief, the metal showing up uniform and vivid white against the dark background.

“His scapula and clavicle on the left side have both been replaced.” Bruce traced the delicate, curving lines of white metal. “And look at his spine. Metal plating on each vertebra, all the way down to the sacrum. Even still, I have no idea how they’ve managed to counterbalance the arm. By all accounts, it’s a wonder the thing hasn’t torn his body apart.”

Bruce continued to talk. His voice faded into a steady sort of hum; a background to the buzzing in Steve’s ears and the sick feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t focus, his eyes flitting between Bucky and Bruce and the horrible images on the monitor. He wished he could be more like Bruce right now, wished he could see beauty in the science of it. Or maybe like Tony; concentrating on the machinery and not the person attached. But he couldn’t do it. All he could see was Bucky. 

“How is it-“ Steve coughed, cutting himself off, his throat suddenly dry. 

“Attached?” Bruce turned back to the bed and pulled at the hem of the sterile, white sheet, easing it down to reveal Bucky’s shoulders and chest. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

Silently, Steve reached out, attention held rapt by the constellation of scars visible on Bucky’s skin. Where the metal of the arm met skin, there was a raised seam of scar tissue, thick and knotted. The scars radiated out across his shoulder and the upper part of his chest, the skin mottled white and red. It was a horrific thought, but what kind of trauma had produced such scars? 

Steve’s gaze was drawn down. On Bucky’s right side was a fresh injury, a gash stretching from the level of his sternum and disappearing beneath the sheet. Blood had dried on the skin, the rust-red surface cracked and flaking. Steve’s mouth twisted to the side as he thought, something dawning on him with a slow, palpable dread. 

He was pretty sure he’d caused that cut. Less than three hours ago, if his timing was right. Even so, it already looked nearly a week old, new pink skin growing in. He thought again of the impossibility of Bucky here, alive and unaged. He thought of his own burns, which were already shrinking and healing over. He thought of Bruce’s words. _‘It’s a wonder the thing hasn’t torn his body apart yet’._

“Have you looked at his bloodwork?” Steve asked abruptly, cutting off whatever tangent Bruce had wandered down. 

“I was working up to that. There’s something you should-“

“He’s got the serum, doesn’t he.” It was more a statement than a question. 

“How’s that possible?” Sam had been quiet up until that point, leaning quietly on the doorframe and observing, but now he spoke. “I thought you said the serum was never reproduced.”

“It’s not the same,” Bruce said. Steve narrowed his eyes. Bruce had to be wrong. The serum was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that explained everything. “Not the one you have,” Bruce clarified, meeting his eyes. “The molecular makeup is different. Less refined. But it’s the serum.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. 

“Believe me.” Bruce’s mouth was a thin line, his eyes dark. “I recognize it.”

Steve winced. Of course Bruce would recognize the thing that he’d spent so many years in pursuit of. The thing that had so thoroughly changed his own life. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Of course.”

A strange sense of relief accompanied the news. The serum. It explained so many things that had been gnawing at Steve since this night began. His brain, however, seemed determined to make the respite short-lived, as new questions quickly filled his head. How had Bucky gotten the serum? Who had given it to him, and when? Slowly, Steve started piecing things together. For Bucky to be alive now, he would have had to have had it…

When he’d fallen. 

Bucky had to have already had the serum when he’d fallen from the train, Steve realized. It wasn’t survivable. Steve had _known_ that. They hadn’t searched, because there would have only been a body to find. 

Bile rose in his throat as he choked out his words. “He was alive.”

“Hmm?” Bruce looked at him, questioning.

“He was alive,” Steve said again. He was numb. His mind had gone suddenly quiet. “All this time. He was alive and I… I left him.”

“You didn’t know.” There was a hand on his back, warm and comforting. _Sam_. But for all the gesture helped, Sam may as well have been on the other side of the world. 

“I left him,” Steve repeated, because he couldn’t do anything else. He turned to Bucky, grasped at his hand beneath the sheet. “He was my-“ He stuttered over the words. It had been so long since he’d said them. _“I left him.”_

“Steve!” 

Sam was in front of him now. When had that happened? 

Sam reached out, grabbing Steve tightly by the shoulders. They were nearly the same height, so Sam easily caught Steve’s eye. “Do you really think you spiraling right now is going to help him?”

Everything hurt, and in a way that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. It took everything Steve had, every ounce of willpower and discipline in him, to force himself back to the present. He swallowed heavily, pushing everything, every thought and feeling and ragged emotion down as far as he could. Turning to Bruce he asked, “What else?”

Bruce’s eyes flicked between Sam and Steve before he spoke. “That’s pretty much it. The arm is astounding, but I’d need to look at it in depth before I could tell you much more about it besides that whoever designed it is a genius. Honestly, Tony is probably the person you want to ask there.” He raised one shoulder in a small shrug. “Everything else is normal. Exceedingly so. I assume it’s the serum. There’s no infections, no elevated white blood cell counts. There’s some drugs in his system. Higher dosages than I’ve ever seen clinically, but if his metabolism is anything close to yours, they should cycle out in the next few days with no ill effects. 

“What kind of drugs?” Steve asked. 

Bruce grabbed a nearby print out, his eyes scanning the paper. “Fluphenazine, olanzapine, diazepam, imipramine, chlordiazepoxide. And a whole host of others. This list pretty much runs the gamut. Antipsychotics, antidepressants, anxiolytics, sedatives, hypnotics, amphetamines, suppressants. I can’t make heads or tails or it. Half of these drugs effectively cancel each other out, and the other half seem completely arbitrary.” He looked at Bucky curiously. “I’ve learned some things about what the serum can do by working with you Steve, but this is… honestly, I’m amazed he’s functional.”

Steve swallowed painfully past the sudden lump in his throat. “What else?” he asked again, determined to absorb every last bit of information he could get.

Bruce shook his head. “I think we’ll have to get the rest from him.”

The corners of his eyes were wet again as Steve nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from his mate. Beside him, he felt Sam relax slightly, his stance shifting into something more comfortable as he looked at the x-ray on the screen.

“I thought omegas weren’t allowed in the army back then,” Sam said.

“They weren’t,” Steve said quietly. “We…” He trailed off. Even now, nearly a century later, he still remembered the awful, sinking feeling when they’d fought about it. In the end, Bucky had gotten his way, had gotten to enlist, and had left Steve behind. Sometimes, Steve wondered if that was half the reason he’d ended up accepting Erskine’s offer in the first place. “By the time he enlisted, they were taking everyone strong enough to fight. The war needed more bodies. The army couldn’t supply them fast enough.”

Whatever Sam had been about to say in response was halted by the trilling of a cell phone. Steve reached automatically for his, realizing a second too late that his was crushed on the concrete somewhere down some DC alley. Beside him, it seemed Sam was coming to the same realization.

“Natasha,” Bruce said, holding his phone precariously between ear and shoulder as he shuffled through his papers. “Mhmm. Yes. Alright.” He shifted the papers to one hand as he held his phone out to Steve with the other.

Steve took with a questioning glance, heart sinking when all Bruce gave him in response was a grim look. Cautiously, he tapped the screen, putting the call on speaker.

“Nat-“ he started.

_“It’s Hydra.”_

“What?” It was like there was a wall between him and the world. Natasha’s words were coming through, but they weren’t quite reaching him, thrown from their path before they’d had a chance to sink in.

 _“It’s Hydra.”_ Her voice wasn’t gentle, but then again he wasn’t sure it would have made a difference. The words were the same regardless. _“Pierce, Rumlow, Rollins, Jackson, Mendoza.”_ She rattled off a list of names, half of which Steve recognized from his own STRIKE team. She paused. _“It’s a long list.”_

His tongue was tangled into knots, his mouth too dry to swallow let alone speak.

 _“Steve?”_ she prompted. Her voice sounded tinny and far away. Or maybe his ears just weren’t working right.

“No,” he said, as if he could wish the idea away if he just believed hard enough. “No, that’s not possible. Hydra is gone. They were destroyed after I…” The words stuck in his throat. He could hear the roar of the plane as it crashed into the water, still feel the chill of the ice creeping into his veins.

_“I’m sorry, Steve.”_

Maybe she really was sorry. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The ice was settling down into his bones, freezing him from the inside out. He’d never known how much freezing could feel like burning alive.

_“There’s more.”_

This time, he could definitely hear the regret in her voice that she had to be the bearer of such horrific news. He could feel laughter bubbling up inside him, threatening to spill out from between his lips.

_“They call him the Winter Soldier.”_

He didn’t have to ask who she meant.

 _“He’s their assassin. Has been, going back at least 50 years, I don’t know. Probably longer. I haven’t gotten through everything yet.”_ She sounded faintly impressed. Steve wished she would stop, wished she could look at Bucky through his eyes and see this tragedy for what it really was. _“There’s been rumours about him in the intelligence community for years, but I never thought that…”_ The next words seemed particularly painful for her to say. _“They did something to him. Some kind of memory manipulation. I’m still trying to understand it. But he doesn’t remember, Steve.”_

 _He doesn’t remember you_. Natasha didn’t have to add the last part. Steve could fill it in on his own. He’d suspected as much, ever since he’d first seen Bucky down in that basement, but the confirmation still stung. On the other end of the line, Natasha sighed, getting ready to speak again.

“Thank you,” Steve said softly before she had the chance to deliver what could only be more bad news. He didn’t wait for an answer, just ended the call with the tap of a button.

Neither Sam nor Bruce tried to stop him from leaving. Steve thought he probably handed the phone back to Bruce. He couldn’t be sure, couldn’t bring himself to check as he left the room. He hadn’t even been able to force himself to look at Bucky before he’d bolted. Was he still Bucky without his memories? A silly question most likely, but one that echoed through Steve’s head as he walked the halls of the Tower. If anyone spoke to him as he passed them, he wasn’t aware of it. Wasn’t aware of anything, really, and wasn’t that nice? The not being aware. He wondered if that was how Bucky felt. If Bucky even realized that there was something he was supposed to be aware of, something that he was missing.

Steve had no memory of walking to the bathroom, but he found himself there all the same. He felt like he might be in a dream, moving through the world, things flowing around and over and through him but never really touching him.

His own face looked strange in the bathroom mirror as he stared into it. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly might be wrong, but there had to be something. All the features were there; blonde hair going lighter at the temples, blue eyes a touch on the small side, skin that was rapidly losing its summer tan to the approach of the winter months; but it was like they were put together wrong. Or maybe they were put together the way they always had been, and only now could he see the difference. His nose hadn’t always been that straight. He’d broken it too many times as a boy and by the time he was 20 it had a permanent cant to the left. His skin hadn’t always been this smooth and unblemished. And the scar along his temple, a souvenir of a back-alley fight on his 16th birthday, that was gone too. Erased by the serum along with the rest of his imperfections.

It infuriated him down to his core. He clenched his jaw. In the mirror, the reflection of him and not-him did the same, a muscle jumping beneath the skin at the force of the movement. It wasn’t right. _He_ wasn’t right, and how would Bucky ever recognize him _if he wasn’t right?_

Steve felt his hand clench into a fist, fingernails digging hard into the meat of his palm. He focused all the confusion of the night, all the rage and helplessness, into his reflection, and the resulting punch shattered the mirror with such force that it left a sizable hole in the wall behind it. His breath came hard and fast, a wicked sense of satisfaction in the throbbing of his fist. Cracks now splintered through the glass, cutting apart his reflection, pulling it apart, reflecting and refracting it into a hundred, a thousand different pieces. So many he couldn’t have put it back together if he tried. Didn’t have the hope to. After all, how did one go about putting a person back together?

“You know, you keep making this a thing and I’m gonna have to start charging.”

Steve stayed silent. The only sound was the soft patter of his blood as it dripped through his fingers and down over his wrist. The drops coalesced, made little red rivers where they joined together on the white tile below, staining it and soaking into the grout. He liked to imagine it would keep going, down into the floorboards and joists, into the very bones of the building. Another piece of him gone.

Sam shut the bathroom door quietly behind himself. Steve watched in the broken mirror, tracking Sam’s splintered reflection. “You wanna talk about it?” Sam asked.

“I’m tired of talking.”

Sam shrugged and stepped forward anyway, undeterred by the unenthusiastic response. He tugged at Steve’s wrist, and only then did Steve realize his fingers were still clenched into a fist. Slowly, he focused on uncurling them, one by one willing his muscles to relax.

“You know,” Sam said, inspecting Steve’s bleeding hand. He grabbed Steve by the shoulders and forcefully steered him around, putting his back to the broken mirror. He pushed Steve backwards until the small of Steve’s back hit the sink. “For a long time - _a long time_ \- I used to think about what I’d do if I ever got Riley back.”

Sam picked up Steve’s wrist again, holding it delicately as he looked it over. Steve looked away, his gaze boring into the plain, white walls. There was a stinging pain, and then a soft clink as Sam laid a large chunk of glass, slick with blood, onto the countertop.

“I thought up all kinds of scenarios. Really wild shit. Like, he hadn’t really been hit, and it was all part of a secret mission that he couldn’t tell me about. Or he had been hit, but he was fine, just stuck in the desert and trying to make his way home. Or he’d stumbled onto something and been put in witness protection.” He barked out a laugh that didn’t sound amused at all. “Ridiculous stuff. But I hung onto it because the alternative was admitting that he was really gone.”

Another soft clink. More glass on the countertop.

“But after awhile,” Sam continued softly, “I started to realize that everything I was imagining, the only person I’d be helping was myself. Not Riley. I started to think that if he were alive and hiding, or scared, or hurt- the kind of shit he had to be going through. And the thought of that was worse than losing him in the first place. The thought that my best friend was out there, alone, and I wasn’t there to help. I thought it would be better if he were dead, because at least he’d be at peace. And that made me feel horrible too, because who wants to think that the person they love is better off dead?”

Steve’s eyes stung worse than his hand. His throat burned.

Sam shook his head, concentrating on his work. “I can’t think of anything worse than the way I felt then. Except maybe, if Riley had been my mate too.”

It was something. An indirect acknowledgment of a similar pain. Why was it that people craved shared experience, Steve wondered. Why did they seek it out in each other? Knowing that Sam had also hurt didn’t make Steve hurt any less.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Steve finally said, meaning every word.

Sam exhaled heavily through his nose. “I’m sorry too.” He worked in silence for another few minutes. He was down to pulling out only small slivers of glass now. “I never thought you had a mate.”

Steve felt his mouth twist down into a frown. “We weren’t public about it. There were… reasons, at the time. The world was different. Not that much different, but enough.” The details weren’t something he particularly wanted to get into right now, and he was thankful when Sam didn’t push further.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You know this news is gonna break a lot of single omega hearts, right?”

Despite Sam’s attempt at raising the mood, Steve was still too tired to laugh. Too tired for even a smile. Definitely too tired to discuss his love life. “Natasha likes you, you know.”

Sam smiled, and it was small, but bright. “Makes sense. I am quite the catch.”

“And humble,” Steve replied.

It was small, the barest concession in the face of his overwhelming exhaustion, but it was the best thank you that Steve could manage in the moment. Sam seemed satisfied enough with it.

“Go on,” Sam said, twisting on the faucet to run Steve’s hand under the cold water. “I’ve got many wonderful qualities. I know you can do better than that.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was the alarm that woke him. For a second, Steve didn’t know where he was or what was happening. His brain was foggy with sleep, his reactions dulled. Every thought felt like struggling up from the bottom of a deep, dark pool. It was hard to think, harder still with the noise of the alarm blaring through the building. The shrill sound shrieked through the halls, clanging and echoing off of every surface, multiplying and compounding until it was reverberating through Steve’s skull. Flashing red lights, set high on the walls, accompanied the wailing of the siren.

Footsteps thundered down the hall, getting closer and closer, as Steve forced his exhausted brain into gear. He sat up, his stiff body screaming in protest as he straightened out his spine, his joints popping and settling back into place. He’d fallen asleep in an exceedingly uncomfortable chair beside Bucky’s bedside. He remembered grasping Bucky’s hand, the one that wasn’t metal, through the sheet. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d only intended to lay his head down for a second. But Bucky’s hand had been warm and he’d been so tired. And Bucky was… not there.

The bed was empty. Where Bucky had been there now was only rumpled sheets and discarded wires that were still attached to their leads and various machinery, but no longer to the person they were supposed to be monitoring.

Suddenly Steve was awake, no trace of his previous exhaustion to be found. The realization that Bucky was gone was like a lightning bolt, jolting him completely upright. _Bucky was gone_. The footsteps that he’d heard earlier stopped just outside the room, and then the door flew open, nearly smashing into Steve as he flew across the room.

“Where is he?” Steve asked frantically.

Tony’s dark eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep, his hair wild, stuck up at all angles. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, ink stains on the wrists. He’d clearly been working through the night. “Same question,” he shot back.

“I fell asleep,” Steve said, guilt bubbling up inside him. “He was here, in the bed, and I-“

There was a cool breeze on Steve’s face, ruffling his hair and carrying with it the smell of coming rain. His gaze snapped around to the sole window in the room. It was open, the blinds that covered it moving gently with the wind. Outside, Steve could hear the faint sounds of the city, far below. Almost at the exact same time, the two men made a move to step closer, nearly colliding as they did.

Steve reached the window first, Tony hot on his heels. He threw the blinds aside, yanking them half off their mountings in his haste. His earlier assumption had been wrong; the window wasn’t open, it was missing entirely. The glass had been knocked carefully out of its frame. Steve’s serum-enhanced vision could see light glint off of shards that had landed on a ledge several floors below.

Looking down made Steve instantly dizzy and vaguely nauseous. He’d hated heights ever since he was a child, and though his work with the Avengers had largely forced him to get over the fear, it still held some sway. Bucky, on the other hand, had never been scared of anything, much less high places, and his confidence and conviction had convinced Steve to follow him along on more than one fool-hardy adventure that had ended with them far higher up than Steve ever had the desire to be. Now, sticking his head out of the window, he could feel his stomach swoop with the old, familiar fear as he strained to see the ground, god-knows-how-many floors below. Before the feeling could get any worse, he pulled himself firmly back into the room, backing away from the window until he felt like he was on solid ground once again.

“This is the 80th floor,” Tony said. “There’s no way anyone could survive a jump like that.”

Reluctantly, Steve peered through the window again, his eyes picking out several jutting structures in the dark. “He didn’t jump,” he said. “Climbed probably.” He felt his stomach twist over on itself at the thought. “Fuck. Fuck. Tony, is my bike still in the garage?”

Steve felt his mind barreling forward. Find Bucky. That was all that mattered now. His motorcycle should still be in storage, and Bucky couldn’t have gotten far, had to at least still be in the city. Had to, because if he wasn’t, Steve didn’t know where to look, and that wasn’t a thought he was ready to face yet.

“You can’t-“ Tony started, and then made a face. “Jarvis, cut the alarm.” The abrupt silence was jarring; Steve could still hear the echo of the alarm ringing loudly in his head. The emergency lights flickered off, the red glow disappearing and leaving the room lit only by the harsh overhead fluorescents. “You can’t leave,” Tony finished.

The idea of Steve staying in the Tower right now was laughable. “I have to look for him,” Steve said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Tony argued anyway. “You _can’t_ leave.”

Steve felt himself starting to tense up, the muscles in his jaw clenching. “I’m getting really tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do tonight. I’m going to look for him. If you’d like to try and stop me, feel free.”

Tony listened with an impassive expression, seemingly thoroughly unimpressed by Steve’s declaration. “I’m not your enemy right now, Steve.”

Steve definitely wasn’t convinced of that right now, but he stayed quiet, letting Tony finish.

“I’m trying to protect you. You said it yourself earlier. Pierce has got you dead to rights on this. You know how many people have seen the news by now? You show your face outside this tower and half of New York is going to be on your ass, including the press. What do you think your chances of finding him are if you’re trying to dodge reporters while doing it?”

Tony was right. Steve knew it, and yet part of him was refusing to accept the reality of it. His fingers trembled and his muscles were tight with the need to _go go go_ right now. “I need to find him,” Steve said, hating the catch he heard in his voice.

“Then you need to trust me,” Tony answered firmly. “Trust _us_. We’ll all go. Bruce and Clint and Sam and whomever else I can scare up in the next five minutes. We _will_ find him. And if we don’t, then you can know for sure that it wasn’t because we didn’t do everything in our power.”

At some point, his breathing had turned quick and shallow. Steve forced himself to slow down, to draw a big breath of fresh air into his lungs. His ribs twinged with the expansion of his chest, a small reminder of something important. “When you find him,” _when, not if, because he couldn’t deal with if right now_ , “how do you plan on stopping him? He would have killed me tonight if Natasha hadn’t been there.”

“And who exactly do you think provided Natasha with all those beautiful toys,” Tony huffed. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, but we’re not exactly going in blind here. The rest of us may not have fought in World War II, but this superhero stuff? We’ve been doing it just as long as you have. Don’t start doubting us now.”

Steve had the vague sense that he ought to feel ashamed for questioning the rest of the teams’ ability. In fact, when he had a moment to breathe, he probably would feel bad about it, but for now his thoughts were focused on the monumental task ahead of them. “Go,” Steve said. “If you’re going to do this, then go now. And Tony-“ He didn’t know what else to say besides, “Find him.”

Tony tossed him a casual salute, already on the move. “Aye aye, Cap.”

==⍟==

Things moved quickly after that as the team (minus Steve) got suited up. All of Sam’s gear was back in DC, but Tony had more than enough spare body armor and dubious, experimental weapons to loan him some. Tony himself was in his familiar red and gold suit, while Clint had gone with all black to blend into the darkness of the night. All four of them carried replicas of the dart that still burned a hole in Steve’s pocket, each loaded down with a hefty dose of tranquilizer. There wasn’t much of a plan to speak of besides ‘shoot on sight and hope to god there’s enough sedative to knock him out’. It wasn’t an overly comforting thought.

It was a quick whirlwind of noise and movement as they kitted up and set out, and when the door had closed behind them, the silence left behind was like a living thing. Steve could feel it all around him, an unbearable pressure that threatened to flatten him to the ground if he didn’t keep moving.

Steve tried to return to the room where he’d last seen Bucky, but found that he could bear it only for a few minutes before the silence started to drive him insane, unable to do anything but stare at the abandoned bed and discarded sheets. He tried instead to wander the halls, but the commotion of earlier had settled and the halls were silent once more. The people who worked in the Tower were mostly asleep by now and the building had gone quiet.

Eventually, Steve found himself in the kitchen on one of the communal team floors. The room, with its open floor plan that extended out to cover a living area with couches and chairs, was dark. Without the glare of the overhead lights, he could see through the massive floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows to the city beyond. Hundreds of thousands of lights sparkled against the black-blue canvas of the city at night, making the stars in the cloudless sky above seem pale in comparison. It was a beautiful sight; it had always brought Steve comfort, especially on those nights after he’d first come out of the ice. The city didn’t look as different in the dark as it did during the day, and for a little while at least, he could pretend he was home.

Now it was hard to see that same beauty. Steve couldn’t keep his concentration from slipping, focusing not on the points of light, but instead on the dark spaces in between. Bucky could be anywhere, slipping through the cracks of the city, and every second that passed, Steve knew the chances of finding him again grew more and more slim.

“Oh no, no, no, bad idea. Let’s take this down a notch.” A familiar, soft lilting voice interrupted his thoughts.

Pepper stood beside him, reaching out to pry something gently from his hands. Ah, yes. He’d meant to make coffee, had even gotten the beans from the cabinet, but had promptly gotten lost in his own head, container still gripped tightly in his hands. Gently, Pepper pulled it from his grip and set it down on the marble counter, before opening up a cabinet and rooting around until she came up with two mismatched mugs.

“Tony told me what’s been going on. I think the last thing you need right now is coffee,” she said as she filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. Her red-blonde hair was free from its usual ponytail, falling in soft waves that framed her petite face. Her clothes, a faded t-shirt a size too big and soft black leggings, told him she’d probably already turned in for the night and this trip to the kitchen hadn’t been planned.

“Is it your turn to babysit me?” Steve couldn’t help the bitter edge in his voice. He’d meant what he’d said to Tony earlier. He was getting tired of being told what to do and how to feel.

She side-eyed him with a look that was a near-identical match for Tony’s before she answered. “I know you’re upset, so I’m not going to take offense at that. But you might want to consider being nicer to your friends.”

His cheeks grew hot as guilt rushed through him. “I’m sorry, Pepper,” he said. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and rubbed hard. God, his head hurt. “It’s been a long night. A really, really long night.”

She gave him a small, understanding smile; more an uptick of the lip than anything, and patted his arm. “So I heard.” She turned back the counter, filling both mugs with tea bags.

He purposefully turned his back to the windows, watching Pepper work. The lip of the counter dug into the small of his back. The feeling was strangely grounding. “How do you deal with it?”

She cocked her head but didn’t turn around. “Deal with what?”

He waved a hand, like the motion could encompass everything he was thinking and feeling. “Knowing that Tony is out there. Knowing that your mate could be in trouble and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.”

To her credit, she paused before she answered. Steve appreciated that. It was part of what made Pepper so unique. She thought before she spoke, offering real advice instead of mindless platitudes.

“I trust him,” she finally said.

The answer wasn’t exactly what Steve had been expecting. He didn’t see how it changed a damn thing. Even if he did trust Bucky right now, it didn’t change the fear that was roiling inside him. 

“I’m scared,” he admitted. His voice was small, barely a whisper. The confession was a difficult one, but something brought it out of him. Maybe it was his exhaustion, or the way the moonlight streaming in through the windows lit everything with a soft, silver glow. The room felt suspended in time, like he might be able to live here forever with just the sound of the tea kettle steaming gently on the stove to keep him company. “Yesterday… Bucky was alive. He was out there, but I didn’t know it. And I was fine, I was okay, I was living. I missed him, but it was like an afterthought most days. And now… nothing’s changed. He’s alive, he’s out there somewhere,” he gestured wildly at the window, indicating the city beyond, “and I feel like I can’t _breathe_. I keep finding myself wishing that I had never found him, and how fucked up is that? I hate that I feel that way. I don’t know what to do.”

As if to punctuate the end of his rant, the tea kettle whistled shrilly. Pepper turned and took it off the stove carefully. Steve used the few moments that her back was turned to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. He’d been on the verge of tears all night; a few more minutes of holding them back wouldn’t hurt.

“You know,” she said, her voice thoughtful as she carefully poured the steaming water into the mugs. “We all grow up hearing how amazing love is. Like finding a mate should be your goal, and how wonderful it will be once you have. No one ever talks about after.” She set the kettle gently back down on the stove. “No one ever tells you how much love can hurt. Which I guess is a round-about way of saying that I don’t think it’s bad for you to feel the way you feel. I think it’s normal.”

“Do you ever think it would be better for you not to know? With Tony, I mean. If you didn’t know what he was doing, maybe you’d worry less?”

“I don’t know that I’d worry less. Maybe just about different things.” She huffed a small laugh, her eyes glittering in the dark. The scent of the tea, cinnamon and clove and star anise, permeated the air, complementing her soft omega scent. The combination made Steve’s inside ache. In some way she reminded him of Bucky in that moment. The old Bucky from before. “Tony is my mate,” she continued. “He’s part of me, regardless of what happens. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, even when it hurts.” She paused. She must have seen the look on his face. “It took me a long time to learn that lesson. There are still times when I wonder if I made the right choice. But I know I did.”

His chest hurt, and there was a lump in his throat. “Does it ever get any better?”

She handed him one of the steaming mugs and he wrapped his hands gratefully around it, the warmth chasing away some of the chill, even though it had nothing to do with being cold. She smiled at him. “It does. Most days. Ask me again in 20 years, maybe I’ll have changed my mind.”

God. 20 years. He couldn’t imagine feeling this way for another ten minutes, much less years. “Bucky and I were only kids when we got together. Mates… less than a month before he… not long at all. I still don’t know if I’m doing this right.” He blew gently on his tea, the steam warming his cheeks and making his eyesight pleasantly blurred.

“Time doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “If you feel strongly, that’s all that matters. The rest will fall into place from there.”

“You’ve got a lot of faith.” Steve wished he could say the same for himself.

She smiled, soft and small. “I do,” she said. “Someone has to.”

Pepper stayed with him through the rest of the short hours of the night and into the morning as the sun started to creep across the sky, lighting up the sky with brilliant streaks of orange and pink and purple. The tea had long gone cold in his mug, and Steve was half-dozing against the cabinets, nodding in and out of consciousness, when the rest of the team finally returned. One look at Tony’s face, his lips pressed into a thin line, was enough to tell Steve all that he needed to hear. He even managed to keep it together enough to thank them all before riding the elevator to his personal apartment and collapsing onto his bed for the next two days


	7. Chapter 7

The next few days brought no sign of Bucky. He’d disappeared as thoroughly as if he’d never existed in the first place, as if Steve had imagined him from the start. Sometimes he wanted to doubt himself that any of it had even happened, and only the fact that his friends were still combing the city for any trace of Bucky kept him from convincing himself that it had all been just an elaborate hallucination.

The fact that he couldn’t go out and help search was driving him quickly out of his mind. Frustration and resentment grew inside of him, spiraling out of control and spilling out. He found himself lashing out more and more as his friends came back each day with no news of Bucky.

“We’re not doing enough!” Steve said at the end of another long day.

“Look,“ Tony snapped. “We’re all doing our best here, so you need to back the fuck off.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but stopped short at the faces of his friends. Bruce looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The five o’clock shadow Tony was sporting looked closer to 4am than anything. Clint was nearly asleep on his feet, and even Sam was looking haggard.

Steve closed his eyes, swallowing down his annoyance and anger and all the other things he’d been about to misdirect towards the only people who really had his back. God, Sam wasn’t even supposed to still be here, but there he was, working his ass off to help Steve. He’d extended his stay in New York an additional week already, much to chagrin of his boss. At a certain point, even name-dropping Captain America didn’t help.

Steve promptly shut his mouth and the team dissipated for the night, each of them disappearing to rest and get ready for the next day of what would most likely be more fruitless searching. Steve tried his hardest to relax, but found that he couldn’t. He paced the Tower, floor to floor, room to room, pouring over the few files Natasha had sent over and muttering to himself as he tried in vain to figure out where Bucky might have gone too, if he was even still near the city at all. Eventually, after he’d paced through the kitchen for the hundred and first time, Pepper asked him wearily if there was anything she could do for him.

But there wasn’t anything she could do. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. He stewed over the question that night as he lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Was this going to be how he felt forever? His conversation with Pepper the night of Bucky’s disappearance flashed through his head. He could never forget what he knew, and that in turn meant that he couldn’t rest until he found Bucky. Suddenly his life seemed to stretch before him, bleak and endless.

His tired eyes found a crack in the ceiling; a miniscule little thing that he’d never noticed before and could barely see now. Faults in the foundation. Tony would have a fit. Steve was on the verge of getting out of bed to examine it further when something caught his attention. A faint noise, barely noticeable over the hum of the heater beating back the coming winter chill. Steve froze, his breathing shallow as he tried to figure out where it was coming from.

Again. The sound hardly registered, but he was sure of it now. Footsteps, or at least that’s what it sounded like. He could hear a shuffling sort of noise, something moving through the apartment. A break-in, maybe? Almost immediately he dismissed the idea. Break-ins weren’t exactly common on the 75th floor, and even if a thief could get past the Tower security and Jarvis and the Avengers, who in their right mind would try to rob Captain America? It was a laughable thought, really.

Carefully, Steve slid out of bed, his bare feet hitting the carpet with barely a whisper. He wasn’t scared. He’d long ago lost the fear of bodily harm; the healing effect of the serum better than any security blanket. Still, here in his shadowy apartment in the middle of the night, without even the lights of the city visible through his blackout curtains, Steve felt strangely vulnerable. His clothing didn’t help any, boxer-briefs and an old, worn t-shirt were a poor substitution for his suit and shield.

Quietly, he crept down the hallway, making his way by memory rather than sight. And there it was again, this time accompanied by the creak of a floorboard that he’d been telling himself he’d fix for months. For just a second, his heart leapt at the sudden prospect that it might be Bucky. But then again, it could also be a loose piece of paper caught in a cross-draft. He didn’t hold out high hopes for the former. 

“I know you’re there,” he called, announcing himself on the off chance that there really was someone in his apartment. At least giving them a little warning might stave off the inevitable fist fight. Steve really didn’t feel like tangling with someone tonight, or dealing with the resultant bruises tomorrow morning. But then again, he thought, the nervous energy he’d been building up for days needed some kind of outlet, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t say no to a little rough and tumble.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve said again, pitching his voice to be heard throughout the apartment. It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but who was counting?

He paused at the end of the hallway, just beyond the door that led out to the living room. The floor plan, like the design of the rest of the Tower, was spacious and open. Whatever had been making the noise had stopped, but still he was cautious. He silently eased the door open and stepped into the living room. With all the lights off, the room took on an ominous aura, a complete contrast to the daytime. Shadows cast great swathes of the floorplan into darkness. Every corner became a hiding place, every piece of furniture now an obstacle between him and whatever might be out there. Steve sniffed the air, hoping to catch a whiff of something. If it was a person, they wouldn’t be able to hide their scent. He caught just the briefest flash of smoke and cedar and snow before he was knocked off his feet.

He landed heavily, his shoulder clipping a coffee table on the way down, before his back slammed into the ground. The air left his lungs in a great _whoosh_ as he landed, and something large came to rest on top of him. For a second his vision was blurred from the impact, his eyes unable to focus. Whatever had taken up residence on his chest was heavy, pinning him down with its weight.

A person. It _was_ a person, Steve realized. Slowly a face started to come into focus, mere inches from Steve’s own.

“I can’t leave! Why can’t I leave?!”

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true. But it was him. He was back and he was squeezing the air out of Steve’s lungs with his weight. Steve hardly cared. Just the sound of Bucky’s voice was more than enough to make up for the lack of oxygen. Steve could breathe him in now, could smell the cedar-pine-winter scent of him. Any doubt he had that this might be a dream was erased by the overwhelming presence of his _mate_.

“Stop calling me that!” Bucky growled. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been the night of the party, though they were now considerably worse for the wear. His hair was unruly, sticking out at odd angles, and he looked like he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower in a while. His eyes were wide and wild, glittering in the dark. But something was different now, some sort of awareness that hadn’t been there before.

He was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. 

Bucky grabbed at Steve’s shirt, snatching at the fabric and balling it up between his fists. Steve heard the shirt tear, but neither of them made a move. If anything, Bucky only grasped at it harder. The metal arm glimmered in the scant light, and Steve heard the quiet whir of mechanical parts as it moved, the metal plates flowing and shifting like a living thing.

Despite Natasha’s warning, Steve searched desperately for any hint of recognition in Bucky’s face, any sign that he might see Steve and remember their life together.

“I’m calling you that because it’s your name,” Steve said, his voice calm despite the wavering he felt in the rest of his body. He tried hard not to let his desperation show. He didn’t know what would set Bucky off, maybe scare him off entirely. He had to be careful, but he also had to be direct. It was a fine line to tread. “James Buchanan Barnes. But you go by Bucky.”

“No.” Bucky’s fists clenched tighter, the collar of Steve’s shirt twisting in his grip. The movement drove the back of Steve’s head into the floor hard, but he didn’t flinch. _“I don’t.”_

“You do,” Steve insisted. He didn’t try to move, didn’t try to loosen Bucky’s grip. Bucky could do what he wanted, what he needed, to work this out, as long as he didn’t leave again. For now, his hands on Steve were just reminders that he was here and alive. Steve wondered fleetingly if there was something wrong with him that he thought like that. But then again, even if there was, he didn’t particularly care. He could worry about all of that later, could pick his motivation apart stitch by stitch. “I’ve called you that all your life.”

“I don’t know you,” Bucky spat back, the edges of the words coming out sharp and cutting. He looked, if possible, more manic than before, the air of desperation around him slowly but surely mounting. “I don’t know you, I don’t know you, _I don’t know you!_ ”

“Yes you do!” Steve said, feeling his voice rising in pitch and tone to match Bucky’s, despite how hard he tried to stay neutral. His fingers scrabbled at the floor beneath him, his wrists pinned by Bucky’s knees. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re my mate and my best fucking friend. We grew up together, Bucky, we went to goddamn war together. You have to remember that!”

“Well I don’t!” Bucky roared. He was furious, leaning over Steve, his face so close they were nearly touching. His cheeks were dark with color and his hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Why won’t you let me go?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Steve said frantically. He didn’t understand what Bucky meant. He’d brought him to the Tower, sure, but clearly it hadn’t been able to hold him, not if he wanted to leave. And he _had_ left, so he had to be talking about something else.

“You’re lying.” Bucky leaned in impossibly closer, and now they were touching, their noses brushing each other. Bucky’s skin was warm, his scent overwhelming. Steve felt giddy as he breathed it in. Despite the situation, Bucky’s scent, the scent of his mate, made him light-headed. He wanted to laugh or cry; he wasn’t sure which, although he didn’t think Bucky would appreciate either one at the moment.

“I’m not.” Instinctively, Steve tried to hold up his hands, a white flag of surrender, but Bucky still had him pinned firmly, and he scowled at Steve’s sudden movement. “Sorry, sorry,” Steve said quickly. He’d have to settle for hoping his tone came through. “I’m not lying, I swear. I really have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“I want to leave,” Bucky said. His words came out as a frustrated growl that Steve could feel reverberate in his own chest. “I want out of this city, but every time I try to go, something keeps pulling me back. It’s in here.” He let go of Steve’s shirt with his flesh hand and thumped his own chest, hard. “Like something’s eating at me, making me feel sick. And here,” he touched the side of his head, fingers tangling in his dirty hair, “it’s like someone’s screaming at me. I try to ignore it, but it’s _so loud_ , they won’t shut up, and every time I close my eyes I see your fucking face, so I need you to tell me why this is happening, why do I feel like this, _why_?”

And _oh_ , it was more than Steve could have hoped for, more than he could have dreamed. Maybe Bucky didn’t remember, but he hadn’t entirely forgotten either. Somewhere, some part of him knew. Steve wanted to scream, but he barely dared to breathe, afraid that even the smallest wisp of air might blow this entire thing away like dandelion seeds in the wind.

“It’s your bond mark,” Steve said quietly. “You’re feeling your bond mark.”

“I don’t have one of those,” Bucky said, yanking his own collar aside to show the smooth, pale skin of his neck and shoulder.

“Neither do I,” Steve said quickly. He craned his neck to one side as well as he could, unable to pull his own shirt aside. “The serum won’t let me scar. I think it’s the same for you. But the bond isn’t in the scar. Whether you’ve got it or not, the bond is still there.”

Bucky shook his head, his hair flying around him like a dark, messy halo. “There is no bond,” he insisted. “I’ve never met you. I don’t know you. I don’t know you.” He repeated it over and over, like a mantra he was trying to convince not only Steve of, but himself as well.

And god, that hurt more than Steve had thought it would. It was one thing for Bucky not to remember, but another thing entirely for him to forcefully reject Steve. Even though it made his insides twist, Steve tried to remind himself of how Bucky must be feeling. Hurt. Confused. And all on top of the constant, inexorable pull of the bond. Steve remembered like it was yesterday, the way his entire body had ached and throbbed after Bucky had gone off the train. Their bond had pulled at him, like it was trying to rip his soul from his body to follow Bucky into that abyss. There had been no escape, no ignoring it. Not even sleep could stop it, his dreams instead full of Bucky’s face and the last few panicked seconds before he’d fallen. In the end, it had been a relief to put the plane down in the water, to let go. He didn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

“You know me,” Steve breathed. “Your name is Bucky. You used to save up your pocket change to buy me pencils when we were kids. And when we were old enough, you rented that crappy apartment for us. It was falling apart and we could still barely afford it. The sink leaked and the windows were rusted shut and the wind used to come in through the cracks until the entire place was freezing, but you loved it. Even in the middle of winter, you’d laugh and tell me how lucky we were.”

Bucky was breathing hard, shaky, like he’d just run for his life, but slowly, _slowly_ , his grip on Steve’s shirt slackened. The tension in his body was obvious, his shoulders held tight, but at least he no longer looked like a rabbit, frozen before a fox, ready to bolt at the slightest movement.

“Your mom’s name was Winifred,” Steve continued. Bucky’s eyes bored into him as he spoke. “I was around so often she used to joke that she actually had given birth to twins, it was just that the other one had showed up a few years late. Your dad, George, he died when you were young. I went to the funeral with you. You have a little sister. Becca. She used to follow you around like you hung the moon. She was so young when you enlisted. She cried for days when you left. And you had me. Steve. You were my best friend and-“ He swallowed hard, his throat spasming as he tried not to cry. “We loved each other. So fucking much.”

Bucky shook his head as a range of emotions crossed his face, so quickly Steve could barely identify them. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Rage.

“It’s true,” Steve pushed on. Now that he’d started he found he couldn’t stop. “You’re my mate Bucky, and I’m yours, and your bond won’t let you leave because you love me. Even if you’ve forgotten, you love me.”

“I don’t remember any of that.” Bucky’s voice, when he spoke again, was smaller than Steve had expected. It was like all the righteous anger had drained out of him in an instant, leaving behind only a deep sense of sorrow. “Why don’t I remember that?”

“You fell, and some people, they took you and- “ Steve immediately stopped himself. There was a fine tremor running through Bucky, Steve could feel it. There was no need to push it further, not right now. “They made you forget. But they can’t do that anymore. You got out. You’re free.”

Bucky’s mouth was working, opening and closing without a sound. Steve didn’t blame him. He was feeling overwhelmed himself, and he had a fully functioning memory. Bucky looked like he was going to cry, or maybe scream, or run, or all three. “It’s not right,” he finally got out, forced though it was. “This isn’t right, _I don’t remember_.”

He was starting to panic, starting to work himself up. Steve could feel it in the way Bucky’s metal fist tightened again on the collar of his shirt, in the way Bucky’s knees ground down into his wrists. His fingers had long gone numb, but he didn’t care right now. All that mattered was Bucky and keeping him calm. Bucky’s cheeks had gone flame-red, his breath coming short and fast, still bent down so low that Steve could feel the minute fluttering of his eyelashes. He was so, _so_ close, just right there; so close that Steve could touch him, could _feel him_ , after all those years alone. Without thinking, Steve moved.

The moment their lips touched, Bucky froze. Whether in shock or surprise or something else, Steve didn’t know, but still he pressed on. He craned his neck, chasing Bucky’s lips. And then, after a moment of hesitation that felt like a lifetime, Bucky was kissing him back.

It wasn’t nice. If anything, the kiss felt violent. Years of fury and sadness and loneliness bundled into something too small to contain it. The kiss was something wild. Feral and unhinged, and Steve basked in every second of it, every gasp and grunt and tiny movement. Suddenly the hand that had been holding him down was now pulling him up towards Bucky. Steve came willingly, reaching out for more.

Bucky shifted, and now Steve’s hands were free now too. He wasted no time in wrapping them around Bucky’s back and pulling him close until their bodies were flush against each other. And god, it had been so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel like this, to feel whole and complete, like a part of him that had been missing was slotting back into place, the gears coming back to life, shaking off the rust and starting to turn again. He’d been locked in a dark room for so long he’d forgotten the sun, and now that he remembered it again he never wanted to go back. He’d let himself drown in this, in _Bucky_ , before he’d let himself go back into the dark.

Bucky’s lips were chapped and rough. Beneath his omega scent he smelled like the streets, like he’d been living rough, but Steve didn’t give a damn about that. His only thought as he kissed Bucky was _more, please god more_. He nearly cried with relief when Bucky kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm. Steve licked at Bucky’s lips, silently demanding, and Bucky opened his mouth, welcoming him. Steve’s tongue pushed inside and Bucky made a little sound, just a small thing, barely audible over the sound of their harsh breathing. Steve felt it go straight to his cock, the tiny gasp like a lightning bolt of pure desire. He pulled Bucky closer, slid one hand around the small of his back and another into his hair as he kissed him.

“Fuck!”

There was a sudden, sharp pain in Steve’s upper lip, and coppery blood dripped onto his tongue and down his chin as Bucky jumped back, moving as quickly as if he’d been lying on hot coals. Steve watched in despair as Bucky rocked back on his heels, putting distance between them, clutching his head in his hands and shaking it wildly.

“Bucky,” Steve said, reaching out for him, but the movement only drove Bucky back further. Quickly, Steve dropped his hand, pushing up on his elbows as he stared at Bucky. “It’s alright.”

“Stop it.” Steve would have traded a thousand angry curses if it meant he never had to hear Bucky sound so small and lost again. “Stop it. You’re messing with my head. You’re holding me here, and I just want to _go_.”

“I’m not,” Steve said, and felt his heart break just a little bit more in the process. “If you want to go, you can. I’m not going to keep you here if it’s not what you want, Bucky. I’m not messing with you or trying to confuse you. I promise. I love you. I would never lie to you about that.”

Bucky’s eyes glittered, wet and red-rimmed. “How do I know that’s true? How do I know any of this is real?”

Steve thought he caught the phantom scent of cinnamon and cloves. “You just have to trust me.”

Bucky laughed, and it was a bitter, ugly thing. “Trust you,” he repeated, his voice edged with razor wire.

“Yes,” Steve said. Plain, simple, undeniable. “Trust me. Just give me a few days, and if you still want to go after that-“ He paused, and what he said hurt more than any physical injury ever could. “I’ll help you go and you’ll never have to see me again. But please. Stay right now. At least for the night.”

Bucky’s mouth was tight, his expression cold and impossible to interpret. He seemed to struggle, time stretched on unbearably slowly as he wrestled with himself before finally seeming to come to a decision. “I’ll stay, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve choked out, sitting up and resisting the urge to reach for Bucky. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “This place have a shower?”


	8. Chapter 8

When Steve woke the next morning, it was to the insistent trill of the telephone and an unrelenting cramp in his neck. He shot upright immediately, looking over to the couch where he’d left Bucky for the night. Two ice-blue eyes stared back at him, and Steve felt the panic that had begun to build in just a few short seconds fade as he realized that Bucky hadn’t taken off in the middle of the night.

Steve groaned as he moved, shaking out the stiffness from his limbs and severely questioning his choice to sleep on the chair by the couch. Although truth be told, he would have slept on a bed of nails if it meant being near Bucky. After everything that had happened, the distance between the living room and bedroom felt insurmountable. 

Right. The phone.

Steve quickly turned his attention back to the phone that Tony had given him; a replacement for the one he’d lost in DC. Blinking blearily, he held it to his ear.

“Meeting.” Tony’s voice was curt. Clearly it wasn’t a time for pleasantries. “Now. Bring your friend.”

Steve coughed, taken aback as he glanced again at Bucky. He was exactly where Steve had left him, scowling in Steve’s direction like Steve was a particularly unpleasant sight so early in the morning. “How’d you know he-“

“This _is_ my Tower, Rogers.” Tony was either annoyed or amused; Steve couldn’t suss out which. “Someone so much as sneezes within a hundred yards of this place, I know about it. You’re welcome by the way,” he said dryly. “I had Jarvis hold the alarm when your old war buddy broke another one of my windows.” As if he could sense Steve’s thoughts, he continued, “And yes, he was keeping an eye on you. We were ready to intervene if anything started to go south.”

Steve thought of the night before; the shirt he’d been wearing was all but ruined, the fabric of the collar stretched and torn beyond repair. He was pretty sure all the help in the world didn’t matter if the person attacking you was already sitting on your chest.

“Right,” he said, keeping his skepticism to himself. “We’ll be there in five.”

Steve took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, and rubbing until it hurt. He felt like a broken record lately, skipping through the same patterns over and over on an endless loop. He wondered if going back to sleep was an option.

“Buck-“ he began.

“I heard.”

Bucky stood, and Steve noticed that he had even removed his shoes to sleep. He’d showered the night before, but had refused Steve’s offer to launder his clothes, bristling when Steve tried to pick them up. Steve didn’t doubt he was hiding a multitude of weapons and other nasty surprises, and so he’d backed off, letting Bucky redress as he saw fit. The blanket that Steve had left on the couch was still folded neatly, and even the pillows looked untouched. Clearly, trust was still a long way off. Not that Steve exactly blamed him after everything he’d been through. He supposed Bucky deserved a little unfounded healthy suspicion.

“Are we going?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow in Steve’s direction. His tone was so much like the old Bucky that Steve nearly flinched. 

“Bucky,” Steve said again, not getting up. The lack of movement seemed to annoy Bucky, and he scowled harder, his hands going tense at his sides. Steve pressed on regardless. “Last night, I… it wasn’t okay for me to do that. I’m sorry I kissed you like that. I shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up.” Bucky’s face was annoyed. It wasn’t exactly the reaction Steve had been expecting. “My head is confused enough already. Please don’t add to it.”

It took no small efforts on Steve’s part to swallow down his next words. He _did_ feel bad about last night. Awful, even. Once the adrenaline had worn off and the quiet of the night had set back in, the thought had plagued him until he’d finally managed to fall off to sleep, and even then it whispered through his dreams. It wasn’t enough that he loved Bucky and remembered what they had been. Not if Bucky didn’t feel the same. What had happened in the past didn’t give Steve any right to lay claim to Bucky now.

Steve took a deep breath as Bucky crossed his arms, clearly impatient. It would have to be a conversation for another time. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Together, they left Steve’s apartment and headed for the communal floor. When they passed the medical area, Steve didn’t miss the way that Bucky kept glancing into the rooms, the way his body tensed up until they passed the area entirely. Steve didn’t exactly blame him, if even half of what he suspected had happened to Bucky was true.

The rest of the team and Sam were already gathered when they finally made their way into one of the larger conference rooms. Tony was wholly absorbed in his tablet, flicking through documents so fast that it made Steve’s head hurt, while Bruce was half-asleep in his chair. Clint looked in imminent danger of nodding off as well. Only Sam looked up when they entered the room.

There was a fifth person in the room, and this one Steve hadn’t been expecting. “Nat!” Steve said, genuinely happy to see her face, even if she’d only come to deliver what he assumed would be bad news. It almost all was lately. “When did you get in?”

“About 20 minutes ago.” She came up to him and kissed him on the cheek, her lips soft on his skin and her familiar scent easing some of the tension out of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she pulled back. “If I’d’ve known, I would have met you.”

“We would have told you,” Tony cut in, “but, uh…” Steve followed his gaze over to Bucky, who was standing stock-still at the threshold, arms folded tightly across his chest. “… we figured you might be a little busy.”

Steve sighed internally at the implication. The only thing he’d been busy with was staring at the back of his own eyelids. It hadn’t exactly been the touching reunion they might have been imagining.

Shaking his head like he could clear the thoughts away, Steve looked at Bucky and motioned him gently towards the table and one of the remaining chairs. Bucky met him with a glower and remained staunchly in place. Steve exhaled slowly and dropped into a chair. This wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on today.

“So what do we know?” he asked in lieu of calling the meeting to any kind of official order.

Natasha leaned against the table, her fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the polished surface as her mouth twisted into a frown.

“A lot,” she finally answered. “None of it good.”

Steve nearly laughed at that. She might get the prize for understatement of the year with that one.

“I’m sorry Steve,” she continued, and his attention snapped back. “But everything I’ve found confirms it. Hydra’s been alive and well this entire time.”

The words hurt no less this time than they had the first time. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotions, determined to control himself. The look he saw on Natasha’s face - on all their faces - cut deeper than knives. They were looking at him like they knew he’d given up his life for nothing. And he had.

“When you crashed the plane, it only drove them underground.” She looked sorry for her words, and the pity was worse than what had come before. “After the war, the US government brought over German scientists; ones they thought they benefit from.”

“Operation Paperclip,” Tony said, his tone void of any humour.

“Is it bad that I’m not even surprised we gave clemency to Nazis?” Clint muttered, and Bruce shushed him back into silence.

“Right,” Natasha nodded, ignoring Clint completely. “Some of those scientists were Hydra. They laid low for a long time. Gathered information, political standing. Recruited fresh blood. Hydra’s been infiltrating SHIELD, using it to operate for years. They’re in everything, all the way up to the top.”

“You mean Pierce,” Steve said. He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. Didn’t care. Just hearing himself say the words out loud made him want to punch something. He could only hope that something would eventually be Pierce’s smug face.

“He’s been the de facto head of Hydra for a while,” Natasha shrugged. “Or at least, if there’s anyone he’s answering to, I can’t find them. And they’ve got their hands in everything.”

“By everything, you mean...?” Bruce asked hesitantly.

“Everything,” Natasha repeated. “The government, the courts, policy, finance. At least five congressmen with overt ties to the organization. I’m sure there’s more.”

Tony put a hand to his chest, his voice dripping with melodrama. “Congress? Corrupt? Be still my beating heart, Natasha, say it ain’t so.”

She put out one booted foot and shoved his chair, hard, so that it spun on its wheels. Tony just grinned at her, clearly undeterred. Steve didn’t understand how they could be so casual right now, but then again, Tony had always been prone to gallows humor, and Natasha was no slouch in that department either.

“Look.” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. “The amount of influence they have, the damage they can do… I haven’t seen anything like this since the Red Room.”

And that, more than anything else, was enough to impart the gravity of their situation. It was rare, if ever, that Natasha spoke openly about her past.

“And what about him?” Sam had been quiet since the beginning, but now he spoke up, nodding towards Bucky who still stood frozen in the doorway, a perpetual scowl on his face.

Almost as one, they all turned to look at him. Bucky stared back at each of them, unflinching, before finally settling on glaring at Natasha. Steve got the very distinct feeling that he’d like to be anywhere in the world besides in the middle of the two of them if they ever fought.

“The least I can say for Hydra is that evil people seem to keep good records,” Natasha said. “I found a paper trail, going all the way back to 1944. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Tell me,” Bucky said, his voice low.

“Their scientists were trying to combat what America did with Steve. They were trying to recreate the super soldier serum. And that included testing the different versions on hundreds of prisoners. The project was dropped after Steve crashed the plane. I couldn’t find an official reason, but I can only guess they were running out of money. They spent hundreds of thousands trying to find something that would work. There were never any reports of a successful serum.”

“Well, I think we can all agree that’s not true,” Bruce interjected.

“If they had at least one success, why’d they abandon the project?” Sam asked.

“I’d assume money, like Nat said,” Clint guessed.

“But why put that much money into something in the first place, and then ditch all your research.” Tony looked offended by the very idea.

Bruce shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t know they’d been successful.”

“Uh…” Steve scratched his neck awkwardly. “I think I actually… blew that project up. Azzano, right?” Natasha nodded. “Yeah, that was me. They were keeping hundreds of Allied prisoners of war there, including Bucky, so I… blew it up.” He couldn’t help but glance at Bucky’s face, hoping for even a hint of recognition, but still he saw nothing. It hurt just as much as he’d expected.

“Right. Okay.” Clint was the first to recover from Steve’s statement. He turned to Natasha. “So what happened after that?”

“From what I can tell, they spent the years after the war trying to put themselves back together. Nothing big came along until the 60s. They called it the Winter Soldier Program.” She set her gaze decisively on Bucky. “Him. Hydra’s ultimate weapon. The perfect soldier. No memories, no questioning orders. A machine.”

Bucky had gone impossibly tense, muscles strung so rigidly that he looked ready to break under the pressure. A cracking sound split the air, and Steve looked down in surprise as he realized that he’d been holding so tightly to the edges of his chair that the wood of a portion of the arm-rest had given way, splitting evenly down the middle.

There was a tense silence as everyone paused to absorb Natasha’s words. The very air in the room had taken on an uncomfortable edge, like the false calm before a storm, just waiting for that first roll of thunder to break.

Then Tony shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be the bad guy and say it. Before we go any further with this,” he turned and addressed Bucky directly, “are you still with Hydra? Do you plan to go back to them?”

Bucky looked annoyed beyond measure at the question. “Not planning on it, no, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Tony nodded, seemingly satisfied, but Bucky wasn’t finished yet. “But just because I’m not with them doesn’t mean I’m with you either.”

Now it was Tony’s turn to take offense. “Oh, so your plan is to just hide here, take advantage of our resources, benefit from our work, without-“

 _“Tony.”_ The faint edge of warning in Bruce’s normally placid voice was enough to make Tony falter.

“Fine,” Tony muttered, shooting Bruce a dark glower. “But if this goes bad, I do reserve the right to remind everyone that I raised my concerns here.” He turned to Steve. “Look, I know he’s important to you-“

Steve felt himself tense up. He was familiar enough with Tony’s tone of voice to be ready to fight about whatever words were about to come out.

“But given everything that’s going on, I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to feel about having Hydra’s ultimate weapon sitting at my kitchen table when I get up in the morning,” Tony continued, imploringly. “How much can we really trust him? I know he was your friend, but that was a long, long time ago, and even he admits he doesn’t remember much. How do we know this entire thing isn’t a setup? We could be doing exactly what Hydra wants, letting him stay here.”

“First of all,” Bucky’s voice was tempered, quiet anger flickering under a smooth exterior, “I’m standing right here, so if you’d like to address those questions to me instead of him, that would be great.”

Tony was undeterred, sarcasm starting to creep into his tone. “Alright, then. You heard them. Any reassurances you’d like to offer the group of people trying their best to help you?”

“If I had reassurances, I’d offer them, but I don’t,” Bucky said. “Believe me, I think leaving would be in everyone’s best interest. I’d do it, but...“ He paused mid-sentence, his eyes glancing suddenly at Steve.

Frustrated, Steve jumped in. “He’s not my friend, Tony. He’s my mate. And if he leaves, so do I.”

Steve had rarely seen Tony at a loss for words, but there was always a time for something new. From the faces of the rest of the team, Steve got the feeling that Tony was the last to know.

Steve continued. “Like I said, you want us to leave, we will. But he’s my mate, and I won’t watch him be forced out without saying anything. If you want, I’ll take responsibility for him. Something happens, _anything_ , that’s on me.”

“I think your judgement might be askew here, Steve,” Tony said.

“A vote, then?” Steve said, glancing around at the rest of the team. They all looked as supremely uncomfortable as he felt.

Tony exhaled, venting his frustrations loudly. “I don’t like this.”

“Don’t always have to like everything,” Steve said tersely. “Just have to live with it.”

“Hi, yeah,” Clint cut into the conversation, and with his words some of the tension evaporated. “Fun as this little argument has been, there’s still the whole ‘what the hell are we gonna do about the secret Nazi organization infiltrating SHIELD’ thing that I’d like to clear up.”

“We got after them,” Steve said, at the exact same time that Tony said, “We wait.”

Clint closed his eyes wearily, and muttered, “Great. So glad we all agree.”

“Should we try to contact Thor?” Bruce asked. “We could use him around if things start to get dicey.”

Tony snorted. “Not unless you have an interdimensional telephone I don’t know about. The golden child is _incommunicado_ at the moment. Something about his roguishly handsome, yet wildly antisocial brother.”

“Wildly antisocial,” Natasha said thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her lips as she cocked her head. “Now where have I seen that before?”

“Yes, yes, you’re hilarious,” Tony said dryly, waving her off.

She rolled her eyes, but dropped the act all the same. “I’ve been listening in on communications for days. Mostly low-level stuff, but activity is picking up. They’re ramping up to something. I just don’t know what.”

“Rats fleeing the sinking ship, hopefully,” Bruce said.

“And Pierce?” Steve asked. “Do we know anything else about what he’s planning?”

The look Natasha gave him was deadly serious. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be big. And I think he wants you to take the fall for it.”

Her words left him chilled, despite the comfortable temperature in the room. “How?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Her expression was grim, face lined with worry. “But until we know more, we can’t make a move.”

“So we’re just supposed to wait this out?” His frustration was mounting, starting to get the better of him. Steve could feel it, but he didn’t care to stop it. “Hide out in this Tower, like we’re scared of him? Is that really what you’re saying?” He felt like he’d been having the same goddamn conversation over and over and over, and yet not a thing had changed.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Steve.” She looked like she shared at least some of his annoyance. “But it also doesn’t make sense to run full tilt into a trap if we can help it.”

“Great.” Steve couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. He looked at Tony. “And what do you think?”

“I thought we weren’t listening to my opinion today,” Tony said sardonically, suddenly busy inspecting his tablet.

Clint coughed awkwardly and averted his eyes. In the corner, Bruce looked slightly ill. Steve didn’t even bother to ask; neither of them had ever been great at breaking ties. And he couldn’t put this on Sam, who’d been so quiet since this all started that Steve had nearly forgotten he was there.

“So, in conclusion, no one’s in agreement. Good meeting guys.” Ever the overachiever, Tony let one last barb slip past.

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but Sam, of all people, cut him off. “Why don’t we take a break? Come back together once everyone’s had time to cool off.”

Steve wanted to say no, because how could they wait? Every second they wasted was another second that Pierce had to plan. But as he geared up for another unpleasant discussion, he took a look around the room. Everyone looked, if not physically exhausted, at least mentally drained. They’d all been going 24/7, and mostly to help him and Bucky. The realization was like a bucket of ice water, tamping down the fire burning in his chest.

People exited the room in quick succession, Tony leading the way with a scowl on his face. As he passed, Steve felt guilty for how harsh he’d been. Tony had only been saying what he thought was right. As if she could read his thoughts, Natasha patted him on the arm as he left, the warmth of her hand a small measure of comfort after the awkward meeting. Clint followed behind her, pulling a face and shrugging at Steve in a way that told him all was forgiven. Sam was the only one to stop. He hugged Steve with surprising force, before saying quietly, “You did good.”

Steve breathed deeply as he watched Sam disappear out the door, gathering his strength for the rest of the day. Wearily, he got to his feet, ready to take Bucky back to his apartment. They needed to talk about… everything, really. He only hoped that Bucky would be receptive to the idea.

“Steve, Bucky. If you’d wait a moment, there’s something we need to discuss.”

Bruce had paused at the door. There was something strangely fidgety about his movements; he seemed almost embarrassed to be there, and Steve immediately knew this conversation would be even more awkward than the one they’d just had.

He sat back down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight. Bucky’s arms were across his chest, his face unreadable as he stared.

Bruce looked satisfied that he’d gotten their attention. “Let me just grab something from the other room. I’ll be back.”

He exited swiftly, and Steve found himself staring at the closed door, wondering what the hell Bruce could possibly want to discuss.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” Steve turned to look at Bucky in surprise.

“That you’re fighting with your friends. They don’t seem happy that I’m here.”

“Oh,” Steve said, momentarily flustered. Of all the things he’d thought Bucky might say, this had to be bottom of the list. “Don’t worry about it. That was actually fairly tame for us. There’s a lot of… big personalities on the team. Honestly, the fact that nothing got thrown makes this one pretty dull in comparison. Everyone will be fine by tomorrow.”

Bucky looked like he didn’t quite believe Steve, but if there was one thing Steve could swear by, it was that his team had his back. He could understand how they probably looked to an outsider; unable to agree and on the constant verge of fighting. But he trusted these people with his life. With _Bucky’s_ life. And that was no small feat.

The door opened and Bruce entered again, carrying a small, black bag barely bigger than Steve’s palm. He set it down on the table and then turned to Bucky, holding out a friendly hand. “We haven’t officially met yet. My name is Bruce Banner. I’m a doctor. I looked after you when Steve first brought you here.”

Bucky eyed Bruce’s hand with a blank look on his face. After a moment, Bruce retracted it, nodding his understanding. “Would you like to sit?” he asked as he gestured at the table. Behind Bruce’s back, Steve met Bucky’s eyes, hoping his own presence might help Bucky feel more comfortable. Help him put down his guard a little.

“I’ll stand.”

Or maybe not.

“Alright.” Bruce seamlessly changed tack. “I wanted to talk to you, both of you, about something rather… sensitive. I didn’t think it needed to be a group discussion.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, his anxiety suddenly undercut by a strong curiosity. Bruce had never been one to dance around difficult subjects, but there he was, looking like he’d rather be anywhere in the world but in that room.

“How are you feeling, Bucky?”

Bucky looked more than surprised at Bruce’s question, confused enough by the non sequitur to break his carefully held expression of calm. Steve wasn’t sure himself where Bruce was going with the conversation.

“Fine,” Bucky said curtly.

Bruce took a deep breath, adjusting his glasses and seeming to steel himself for his next words. “Look, I’m going to be frank. When you came in, I took a blood sample. Steve knows about this.” He nodded in Steve’s direction. “There were a lot of things in your blood - drugs - that I can only assume Hydra was using to control you. Calm you down, make you more compliant, any number of things, really.”

Steve could practically hear Bucky’s teeth grinding from across the room. Bruce seemed to sense Bucky’s mounting anger as well and hurried up his speech.

“The other thing I found was suppressants. A lot of them.” He paused, before asking, “Bucky, when was the last time you had a heat?”

_Oh._

Bucky blinked, hard. “I don’t know. I… I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Bruce nodded, his eyes softening at Bucky’s clear discomfort. “I’m not surprised. The amount of suppressants I found… I think Hydra may have been using them to eliminate your heats completely.”

“They can do that?” Steve cut in.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “It’s possible, but not generally a good idea. There’s not a lot of long-standing research on the effects of suppressant use in that manner. We do know it disrupts the body in a major way. Even when it’s done for medical reasons, most sensible doctors wouldn’t suggest a patient doing it for more than a year. Putting off heats only makes them stronger.”

Bucky had retreated back inside himself, his flat affect returning. “What’s your point?”

Bruce didn’t seem bothered by Bucky’s shift in attitude. “Honestly, based on what I’ve seen, I’m willing to bet that you haven’t had a heat - a _real_ heat - in years. Decades, maybe.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asked, even though he had a growing fear he knew the answer already.

“It means that a heat is coming, and soon. Based on the amount of medication in your bloodstream and what I know about Steve’s metabolism… I’m guessing a few days at most before it hits. You’ll probably start feeling effects even before that: fever, fatigue, irritation.”

Steve tried not to laugh. Judging from what he’d seen so far, he suspected that irritable might just be Bucky’s natural state of being at this point. No need to blame nature for it.

“Can you put me back on the suppressants?” Bucky asked, point-blank.

“Ethically, no,” Bruce shook his head. “But I can offer you a choice. I can’t make the heat go away, and I can’t make it less intense. But what I can do is give you something to clear the suppressants out of your system faster. Get it over with, so to speak. Is that something you’d like to do?”

Bucky looked surprised that he’d been given the choice. The implications of that made Steve’s heart hurt so much that he had to blink away sudden tears.

“How would you do it?” Bucky asked.

“It’s just a shot.” Bruce picked up the black bag he’d placed on the table earlier. “One stick and it’ll be done.”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. Steve wished he could read into Bucky’s expression, desperate to know what he might be thinking. “Do it.”

Bruce held up a hand. “In a moment. There’s still something we need to talk about. I know you don’t remember your last heat. But do you remember _any_ of your heats? From before?”

At that question, Bucky paused for a moment, thinking hard, before shaking his head.

“I do,” Steve said quietly. The two sets of eyes on him felt like burning coals, and he resisted the urge to duck his head as he spoke. “From when we were younger. His heats were always relatively mild. The only one that I remember being bad was during the war. He’d been taking suppressants so he could enlist, but after Azzano…” He shook his head. “Anyway, that one was the worst.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m not here to tell either of you what’s right or wrong, but as a doctor, I highly recommend that you have someone with you. The presence of an alpha, especially a mate, can-“

“I’ll be fine on my own.” Bucky didn’t even let Bruce finish his sentence before speaking.

Bruce paused. “If that’s your choice, then I respect it. But I do think it might be a good idea to at least have Steve near you. Even just the scent of a mate can help with containing a heat, and that way if you need help-“

Steve had remained silent for most of the conversation, but now he spoke. “Bucky,” he said quietly. He looked at Bucky, trying to let his seriousness come through in his words, ignoring Bruce entirely. “I promise, I would never force myself-“

A muscle jumped in Bucky’s jaw as he clenched it ever tighter. “Fine,” he said from between gritted teeth. Steve was taken aback. He’d expected a bit more fight. But then again, maybe Bucky was just as worn out as he was with all the back and forth. “You can be there. But you’ll stay out of the way.”

“Yes,” Steve nodded immediately. “Absolutely. I’ll stay in a different room. I’ll only be there if there’s an emergency, and only if you explicitly ask.”

Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly and Steve almost jumped in surprise. He’d been so focused on Bucky, on the importance of his words, that he’d momentarily forgotten the other man was there.

“If you’re ready,” Bruce said, “I can go ahead and administer the shot now. Let you two talk this out on your own.” Bucky nodded, and Bruce’s relief was palpable as he set about prepping the needle and wiping down a spot on Bucky’s flesh shoulder with alcohol. “You’ll have about an hour before it starts. If you’d like to back out, now’s the time.”

Bucky took a deep, steadying breath. “Do it.”


	9. Chapter 9

The walk back to Steve’s apartment was completely silent, though Steve’s racing mind was going fast enough to more than make up for it. In the space of a few minutes, he’d gone over every scenario he could possibly fathom, and many more besides. Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe he would be fine without Steve’s help at all. But what if he wasn’t? How far was he willing to go? How far did he _want_ to go? The possibilities were endless; the consequences even more so.

There was a box waiting outside of Steve’s door. After he’d let them in and closed the door behind them, Steve looked at it questioningly. The box was simple, an unmarked brown package. Completely innocuous; not that that meant anything, especially these days. Curious, Steve pulled it open, the sound of the tape ripping shockingly loud after the silence of the last few minutes. He peered inside for only a second before slamming the lid back down, nearly dropping the box in embarrassment. He could feel himself going red, a blush spreading rapidly up his neck and to the tips of his ears.

“I, uh… I think this is for you,” Steve said in a choked voice, gingerly holding out the box to Bucky.

Bucky leaned forward and glanced into the open box. If the contents surprised him, he didn’t show it. Steve wished he had the same restraint as his eyes were drawn again to the many, _many_ toys that filled the package; every shape, size, and color of the rainbow; some that Steve recognized and some that he couldn’t have even guessed the use of. Bruce, it seemed, had thought of everything. Steve figured he’d be grateful if he weren’t so busy wishing that a hole would open up in the earth and swallow him. Maybe all of New York as well for good measure.

Awkwardly, he set the box down on the first flat surface he came across, happy to put it out of sight if not out of mind. Immediately, he turned back to Bucky. “Would you like to…?”

“Is there a bathroom I can use?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve nodded. He didn’t know how it was possible that he was both relieved that Bucky seemed to want to go it alone and at the same time bitterly disappointed.

Bucky stared at him expectantly. It was already clear that whatever Bruce had given him was starting to take effect. His skin was starting to flush, red creeping slowly up the sides of his neck and beneath his hairline. A light sheen of sweat was visible at his temples and he was fidgeting; tiny, minute movements, like he couldn’t quite hold his body still.

Steve took a deep breath without thinking about it, and the sudden strength of Bucky’s omega scent nearly knocked him off his feet. A strangled noise escaped his throat as he almost staggered under the unexpected scent of his mate, his senses momentarily overwhelmed. His body was awake, his blood singing in his veins as his inner alpha demanded more.

“Just-“ His throat was a desert. “-if you need me…”

Bucky stared at him, unblinking. He wasn’t going to make this easy at all.

“Right,” Steve said, pointing awkwardly towards his own bedroom. “I’ll just. Be in there.”

Bucky stared at him a moment longer before turning and walking off, pointedly ignoring the box of toys. Steve hesitated, wondering if he should at least leave it outside the bathroom door, in case Bucky needed it, before ultimately deciding that, no, no, he wasn’t quite up for that level of humiliation today.

Steve would have liked to be able to say he walked away with dignity, but fleeing in terror might better describe what actually happened next. He practically flew across the apartment to the safety of his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him harder than was absolutely necessary, before throwing himself face down on the bed. Melodramatic, sure. But he figured that for once in his life, he was entitled to a little overreaction. This had been one of the most awkward and supremely difficult days of his life, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

In the distance, he heard the faint click of the bathroom door closing, and even though he knew he shouldn’t, absolutely fucking _knew_ it was wrong, and probably a little creepy of him, he couldn’t help but to strain his ears, listening for other… noises. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t hear anything. With two closed doors and an abundance of space between them, Bucky’s smell wasn’t nearly as strong, no matter how valiantly he searched the air for it. Fuck, he should get up. Do something useful. Sketch, maybe. Cook. Clean. _Something_.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, counting the minutes as they passed and pushing himself further into his pillow until breathing became difficult and his brain started to go fuzzy at the edges. When he eventually pulled back and fresh, clean air flooded his lungs, something else came with it. Bruce’s medication had to really be taking effect now. Bucky’s scent had grown stronger, space be damned.

He wondered what Bucky was doing right now. The apartment was still maddeningly quiet, not so much as a heavy breath to give anything away. He could still remember Bucky’s first heat like it had been yesterday. They’d been teenagers, fumbling and unsure and above all, _loud_. The entire thing had lasted less than half a day, but the awkward conversation with Bucky’s ma afterwards about responsibility and volume control had seemed to last an unbearable lifetime.

At least they’d managed to handle the heats that followed with a modicum more grace. Bucky had settled into a comfortable rhythm, his heats intense but short, and nearly always like clockwork. Back then, Steve had been sick more often than not, and Bucky had had to learn to deal with a lot of them on his own. That ought to bring him comfort now, Steve supposed, but all it did was make him feel as guilty as he had all those years ago. He hadn’t been able to be much of a mate to Bucky before. The serum had changed all of that, and now somehow, here they were again. Steve was whole and strong and still it wasn’t enough.

And Bucky’s last heat, the one after Azzano. Steve didn’t want to think about that, and tried to shove the memories out of his mind. Even with Bucky alive and present, only a few rooms over, the memory of that last heat before the train and the ice was still too painful to dwell on.

If he couldn’t forget entirely, at least he could focus on the good parts. He wrapped himself in other, better memories; Bucky, wet and slick and so, so hot; lips red and full, and eyes rolled back in his head. Bucky, naked, with skin flushed lovely and pink, overcome with his heat. Was that how he looked now? Steve wished he could see him. Wished he could see Bucky put his hands on his own cock, stroking himself until he was shaking, his mouth open on a moan as his head fell back and his legs spread wide, slick dripping down his thighs. If he hadn’t taken any of the toys with him into the bathroom, would he resort to fucking himself on his own fingers? Sliding them across the slick wetness on his skin and into his hole, flushed and panting as he struggled to give himself what he so desperately wanted, what he _needed_ , all the while wishing for his alpha to fuck him until he screamed.

 _Fuck_.

At some point Steve had started to move, rocking his hips, grinding his hard cock against the mattress. The friction on his cock was a heady rush, and he shuddered as he pushed his hips more firmly against the mattress, chasing down the feeling. He bit his lip hard as he imagined what Bucky might be doing. Had he come yet? Surely at least once by now, but maybe more. He could see it; Bucky dragging his fingers through the mess on his own stomach, shaky and weak.

Steve groaned and flipped over, the sudden rush of fresh air doing nothing to cool him down. His hips moved on their own, rocking against air as his body demanded more. His fingers twitched towards his own cock. Was this wrong of him? To do this right now? To get himself off to the thought of Bucky when he was only in the next room? Bucky didn’t remember his heats. He was probably scared and overwhelmed. Miserable maybe, for all that Steve knew, but the pull of his body was so strong. His inner alpha was drunk with his omega’s scent, intoxicated by it. Everything else seemed shoved to the back of his brain except for his desire, and he wasn’t strong enough to fight it, not when Bucky’s smell was all around him, when there was nothing but a few walls between them as Bucky fucked his own fist until he was panting and sobbing. With one hand, Steve unfastened his jeans, shoving them halfway down his thighs as the fingers of his other hand trailed down his own chest and walked across the flat of his stomach and through the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. Steve’s eyes fluttered shut as he gripped himself firmly.

He gave himself a short, experimental stroke, shivering as the slight touch lit up his nerves. He wished that it was Bucky’s hand on his cock instead of his own. Or maybe his mouth, and what a sight that would be; his omega, down on his knees, willingly gagging on his alpha’s cock, his chin slick with spit and his eyes wet with tears. Steve bit back a groan as he stroked himself harder. _Lube_. He had lube in here somewhere, he thought, as he scrabbled at his bedside drawer with his free hand. It was slow going, but he wasn’t about to let go of his cock. It felt too good and _god_ , he needed the release. Lube and his own hand wouldn’t be the same as being buried inside his mate, but it would have to do.

“Steve?”

He froze, unopened bottle in one hand and the other still tightly gripping his cock. Had he imagined it? Was it just another part of the fantasies playing so loudly in his head that they practically seemed real?

“Steve?”

No, he hadn’t been imagining it. Bucky’s voice was plaintive, even from behind two closed doors. Bucky needed him. His _mate_ needed him.

Forgetting about his own pleasure, Steve quickly pulled up his trousers, tucking himself back in as best as he could, hoping that the bulge of his cock, still hard and dripping, wouldn’t be completely obvious. After all, he reminded himself forcefully, he didn’t actually know what Bucky wanted yet. It could be anything, up to and including that Steve leave the apartment entirely. Whatever it was, Steve would do it. Of that there was no question. But he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t return to his bedroom and resume what he’d been doing when he was done.

He made it across the apartment in less than a few seconds, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste. His hand was raised to knock on the bathroom door when it swung open unbidden. Bucky had clearly been waiting on the other side for him.

Steve’s mouth was open, his tongue tangled up in knots as his throat suddenly went dry. Bucky looked _wrecked_. How it was possible, Steve couldn’t even begin to guess. They’d only been apart for half an hour, 45 minutes at the most, but apparently that was all the time that Bucky had needed to work himself into this state of disarray. He was red, flushed and sweating like it was summer in the desert. Sweat dotted his temples and dampened his hairline, a lone drop clinging to one eyelash. Steve spied the clothes he’d been wearing slung in a haphazard pile in the corner. He’d stripped in a hurry, and was now bare naked, his normally pale skin pink all over, the rough transition from flesh to metal made even more jarring by the smoothness of the rest of his body. The fingers of his metal hand were wrapped tightly around his cock, which hung heavy between his legs, the dripping head of it peeking out from between the metal plates. The sight did something to Steve, something that made his stomach swoop low and his breath catch in his lungs. The juxtaposition of soft, pink flesh and cold, hard metal triggered some sort of primal desire within him.

Bucky was breathing hard. Come painted his naked thighs and splattered across his abdomen to drip down onto the floor. On second glance, Steve could see that the tip of his cock was still leaking, little aftershocks of an orgasm still running through him as come trickled between his metal fingers. He had to have come at least a few times by now, Steve guessed, biting his own lip hard at the thought, his own cock pressing insistently against the fabric of his trousers.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice came out hushed, almost reverent, as he struggled with what to say.

“You,“ Bucky said, and _oh fuck_ his hand was moving on his cock, metal fingers sliding through his own release, heedless of the fact that Steve was in the room. “Can you…?“ He lost his words to a small cry that turned into a growl deep in his chest as his hand started to move faster.

“What do you need?” Steve asked, riveted, unable to tear his eyes away from the lovely sight that was Bucky fucking into his own silver fist.

“I don’t know!” Bucky’s voice was louder than he’d expected, and Steve nearly jumped. Bucky’s eyes were wild and red-rimmed, the color high in his cheeks, a blush dancing along his cheekbones. “I- I want-“

Steve nodded encouragement, hardly daring to breathe, desperately scared that the slightest movement would send Bucky careening into panic.

“Here.” Bucky made a jerking motion with his head, prompting Steve forward. His hand never stilled on his cock, but his eyes were locked on Steve, spurring him on as he approached. Steve took a cautious step, and then another, all while Bucky continued to stroke himself, his mouth dropping open on a low moan.

Steve hesitated as he reached Bucky, unsure what to do next. What did Bucky want? What did he need? It turned out Bucky solved the question for him, reaching out with one bare foot to hook behind Steve’s knee, dragging him forward. Steve went willingly until he was face to face with Bucky, their bodies nearly flush. They were so close that Steve could feel Bucky’s breath on his own lips. With every stroke of himself, Bucky’s hand brushed against Steve’s own cock. Even through the fabric, every touch was a revelation, enough to make Steve dizzy.

Bucky tugged at Steve’s leg again, but there nowhere else to go. They were already nearly touching. Hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence, Steve pushed himself closer, trapping Bucky’s hand between them, but leaving just enough space for him to continue to stroke himself. Bucky’s back was to the marble sink, and Steve crowded him against it as he wrapped his arms around Bucky, hugging him tightly.

And apparently, it was exactly what Bucky had wanted. He buried his face in Steve’s neck, inhaling deeply, ending on almost a sob as he shuddered in Steve’s arms. His damp hair stuck to the side of Steve’s jaw. He could feel Bucky’s mouth working, opening and closing, his teeth scraping along Steve’s shoulder. Steve fought the overwhelming urge to turn just a little bit, to move until Bucky’s teeth were over the juncture of his neck and shoulder, to let him _bite_. His cock grew impossibly harder at the thought of a renewed mating bite.

Bucky’s breathing was getting more labored, hot and wet against Steve’s neck. But there was something else there too; an edge of frustration, almost. Bucky growled deep in his chest, the noise reverberating through Steve’s own body, his metal hand stuttering on his cock. Steve recognized the signs. Bucky needed _more_.

Without thinking, Steve dropped to his knees, his hands grabbing at Bucky’s thighs, his fingers clutching the pale skin there as he looked up at Bucky for approval. The movement jostled his own cock as it ached and throbbed for even the tiniest bit of relief, but Steve staunchly ignored it. This was about helping Bucky, not himself. He let his hands travel to Bucky’s waist, gripping it firmly as he gazed at Bucky.

Bucky’s hand had stilled for the first time, and he was panting, staring at Steve open-mouthed and dazed.

“Is this okay?” Steve asked, and Bucky nodded.

Steve didn’t need any more urging than that. He closed his lips over Bucky’s cock, taking it as far back in his throat as he could in a single swallow. He couldn’t help but gag. It had been years - _decades_ \- since he’d done this, and his throat was unfamiliar with the intrusion. Throat spasming as he struggled not to cough, Steve squeezed his hands hard, fingers digging into Bucky’s skin as he tried to ground himself. Bucky didn’t seem to mind the struggle, breathy little gasps escaping him as he threw his head back, his neck long and lean and tantalizing.

Steve could taste Bucky’s earlier release on his cock, salty and bitter, yet somehow spurring him on as he eagerly pushed for more. His coughing was finally under control, and this time he was more controlled, forcing himself to go slowly as he took Bucky in to the root, his nose nearly pressed into the hair at the base of Bucky’s cock. Above him, he heard another gasp as he swallowed, once, twice, running his tongue flat against the underside as he did so.

Beneath his hands, Bucky’s abdomen tensed, and he came without warning. The sudden release took Steve by surprise, and he spluttered and swallowed what he could, the rest dripping down his chin and neck. Bucky looked distressed, and no, no, no, that wouldn’t do at all. Steve soldiered on, determined not to let a little surprise stop this moment, as he eagerly sucked, licking Bucky’s cock clean. He wrapped his tongue around the head, chasing the last bits of Bucky’s release.

One of Steve’s hands left Bucky’s waist, dropping down to between his legs and stroking the delicate skin there. He took Bucky’s sac in hand, rolling the sensitive flesh between his fingers, squeezing gently as he listened to the renewed litany of gasps and groans above him. Each noise made his chest feel full to bursting with a sick kind of pride. _He’d_ been the one to do that, to make his omega produce those desperate, needy sounds. _Him_ , and no one else. No other alpha could do what he did to Bucky, only Steve, and Steve alone.

He sucked hard, hollowing out his cheeks as he gave a particularly hard squeeze of his hand. This time there was more warning. Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, came down on Steve’s shoulders, fingers scrabbling and clutching at his shirt as he came with a wordless cry. Steve was ready, happily swallowing and sucking, determined to pull every last bit of Bucky’s orgasm out of him. But Bucky had other ideas, it seemed. His hands pulled at Steve’s shirt, hard and insistent, until Steve did what he wanted.

With no small amount of disappointment, Steve went back, Bucky’s cock slipping from his mouth. It was still rock hard, wet and shiny with spit and come. Steve had barely a moment to lament its loss before Bucky was pulling him up and in for a kiss.

It was better than the night before, fantastically, amazingly so. This time Bucky was in control, aggressively pushing and pulling, telling Steve with his body exactly what he wanted. His mouth was open, his tongue tangled around Steve’s the second they came together, moaning as he tasted himself on Steve’s tongue. He licked at Steve’s lips, cleaning off the last traces of himself.

Steve turned his head, deepening the kiss as he pressed himself flush against Bucky once more. Even through the clothes he wore, he could feel the heat of Bucky’s body. His temperature was soaring, the heat fully in control as he nipped and bit at Steve’s lower lip. Steve couldn’t help the small roll of his hips, grinding his cock against Bucky’s. He could probably come just like this he thought as he choked at the sudden sensation. The taste of Bucky in his mouth, on his tongue, and his scent in his nose, coming from nothing more than rubbing against Bucky’s body. Suddenly he was a teenager again, everything too fast and sensitive, desperately horny and lost to the demands of his own libido.

“Fuck,” he gasped against Bucky’s lips. Their kisses had turned wet and sloppy, more teeth and tongue than technique. “You smell so-“

“You too,” Bucky said. He sounded ruined, and Steve hadn’t thought it was possible to want someone this much, but here he was, being proven wrong again and again.

Bucky’s cock was still hard against his thigh. It hadn’t gone soft once, and probably wouldn’t until his heat was over. Steve reached down and wrapped his hand around its hot length as Bucky gasped. His face was wet, whether from tears or sweat or come, Steve didn’t know, and he didn’t particularly care. His hand stroked Bucky’s cock at a relentless pace, spit and come helping his fingers glide easily over Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s breath was hot on Steve’s face as he panted, open-mouthed. They were no longer kissing. Bucky’s arms were around Steve’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard as he held on for dear life.

Steve lowered his head, sucking at Bucky’s skin as he went; the side of his jaw, down the long line of his neck, and across his shoulders. Steve left no inch of skin untouched. He continued down, dropping down into an ungainly crouch so he could suck one of Bucky’s nipples into his mouth. The reaction he got was exactly the one he’d been hoping for. Bucky’s fingers dug so hard into Steve’s skin he must be leaving marks, his torso spasming as he slammed himself back against the countertop. With his other hand, Steve grasped at Bucky’s other nipple, pinching it tightly at the same time that he rolled the first between his teeth.

 _“Ahh-ah-ah,”_ Bucky cried out as he came. His cock pulsed a steady beat in Steve’s hand, hot, sticky come dripping over his fingers.

Steve didn’t slow his pace. Bucky was riding that edge. Steve could feel it, could sense that Bucky was ready to be pushed further. Instead of letting go, he pumped Bucky’s cock harder, his pace relentless as Bucky’s own release smoothed the way. He stood straight again, biting at the corner of Bucky’s jaw, clamping down on his earlobe, on the skin of his shoulder. None of them were where he really wanted to be, but it wasn’t about that right now. He pulled at Bucky’s nipple with his hand as he bit down on the soft skin of his shoulder, rocking his body against Bucky’s. Steve pushed him against the countertop with a thumping, steady rhythm as his hand moved faster and faster.

When he came again, Bucky’s orgasm was a long, drawn out thing. It seemed almost painful, come spurting from his cock in bits and bursts. It coated the back of Steve’s hands, dripped down his wrist and covered Bucky’s thighs, even leaving wet spots on Steve’s shirt when it got in the way.

“Keep going,” Steve breathed, before running the flat of his tongue against Bucky’s bruised skin. “Keep fucking going, I know you can, come on.”

Bucky’s muscles were steel cables, his abdomen so tight he must be cramping. His body was an inferno against Steve’s, impossibly hot as the heat fever raged through him. He wailed, long and broken and unabashed as he came, his cock giving a sudden, last, valiant surge as his throat closed on a strangled cry.

“Fuck!” he sobbed, sucking in frantic breaths. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

But of course, despite the amazing strength of the orgasm that Steve had been able to pull out of him, Bucky still wasn’t done. Steve only had a second to marvel at the intensity of this heat before Bucky’s hands on his shoulders demanded his attention. Bucky’s scent was so strong that Steve’s head was swimming, his every sense consumed with Bucky and little else.

“Fuck,” Bucky said again. “Fuck, I need something in me.”

In his pants, Steve felt his own trapped cock throb with pressure, the head slick with precome. “I’ll get the box,” he said quickly, even though the thought of spending even one more second not touching Bucky made him want to scream.

“No toys,” Bucky said. “I want you.”

And this time Steve did take pause. Hands. Mouth. Those were different. Could be explained away as a symptom of the heat, as a friend helping out another friend. But what Bucky was talking about, what he was asking for, letting Steve inside of him… that came with a whole lot of complicated baggage.

Fuck, why hadn’t they talked about this before? Why hadn’t Steve insisted to Bruce and Bucky that they wait a day, to discuss all their options? But no. Instead, they’d jumped right into it, and Steve hadn’t stopped them because deep down he was just as selfish as everyone else. He’d wanted Bucky so badly that he hadn’t stopped to think what would actually be in Bucky’s best interest.

“I can hear you overthinking,” Bucky said.

“Just... are you sure?” Steve asked. He’d let go of Bucky’s cock at some point, and come was drying on his hand, tacky and cold. “I can get a toy, any one you want, and use it on you. Fill you up so that you feel better.”

“I don’t want a toy.” Bucky’s eyes flashed dangerously, some of the fog of the heat dissipating. “Don’t make me beg, Steve.”

_Steve._

It struck Steve then that that was the first time Bucky had used his name. It was a small thing. Miniscule really, in the face of everything else. It probably didn’t mean anything at all to Bucky.

But it meant everything to Steve.

“Okay,” Steve agreed. “Okay, yes. Of course.”

His fingers found their way quickly downwards. Bucky’s legs were coated with slick, his skin soaked with it, the insides of his thighs hot and slippery. Steve dragged his fingers slowly up and around, relishing every small shiver that wracked Bucky’s body at the touch. His fingers slipped between Bucky’s cheeks, tracing tight circles around his hole, scraping his fingernails gently over the muscle. Bucky moaned, long and loud, and emboldened, Steve pushed forward with one finger, sinking the tip of it in. And even though Bucky had been eager and insistent, even though he’d said yes, even though he’d asked for it, still, _still_ , when Steve’s finger pushed in, Bucky flinched.

Small. Minute. Miniscule. Nothing. He might not have even noticed had he not been so hypervigilant of Bucky’s body.

But he did notice. And this wasn’t something he was willing to do if even one iota of Bucky’s mind wasn’t okay with this.

Quickly, he withdrew his finger, pulling away from Bucky.

At some point, Bucky’s eyes had fluttered closed, but now he wrenched them open. Frowning, he asked, “Why did you stop?”

“Bucky,” Steve said. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Stop asking me that!” Bucky’s words came out in an exasperated rush. “I can’t remember things! It doesn’t mean I’m braindead! It doesn’t mean I can’t make my own fucking decisions!”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said quickly, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky growled. “Just stop _doing_ it. Listen to me when I tell you what I want and what I don’t want, and trust that I know what I’m doing.”

 _Ah, shame._ It seemed to be Steve’s constant companion these days. But he didn’t have time to wallow in it today. He hadn’t lost sight of the mission.

“I have an idea,” he said quietly, backing up any further.

“I said I wanted-“

“I know, I know!” Steve said hurriedly. “I heard you. This isn’t me trying to back out. Just... come here.”

Before his body’s own urges could convince him that moving from the extremely close quarters of the bathroom was a terrible idea, Steve darted through the open door. He crossed the hallway to his bedroom in a few steps, shedding his clothing as he went, amazed that he’d stayed clothed for as long as he had. Bucky followed quickly behind him, and a glance confirmed that his hand was on his cock again, stroking it slowly, as if even the few seconds without stimulation was more than he could bear.

Steve came to a stop beside his bed, kicking off his underwear. His cock, still hard and dripping, sprang free from the fabric, and he hissed as the cool air hit his overheated skin. Wasting no time, he dropped onto the bed, shuffling backwards until he could lay flat. Then he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Bucky, gesturing with a nod for him to join.

“Ride me,” Steve said, proud of his idea. “You’ll have complete control this way.”

Bucky didn’t say a word, but his actions made his answer more than clear. Slick dripped down his thighs as he crawled over the comforter and positioned himself over Steve. They were both breathing hard, the noise harsh in the quiet and darkened bedroom. Steve gripped his own cock, stroking it to full firmness before holding it steady. Bucky sank down onto it with a long, drawn-out moan. He was so slick, so open and ready for his alpha, that he didn’t even need any prep. His eyes fluttered shut again as he took Steve in, sinking all the way down to the root of Steve’s cock, going until he was firmly seated on Steve’s lap.

He felt better than Steve remembered. Better than he could have ever imagined. Bucky was hot and slick and tight inside, his muscles hugging Steve’s cock firmly. Bucky rocked his hips experimentally, and Steve bit down hard on his tongue to stop from screaming as his cock moved inside Bucky, wrapped in velvet and heat.

Bucky seemed to approve as well, and he started to fuck himself on Steve’s cock in earnest. Getting his knees beneath him and to either side of Steve’s hips, he pulled himself all the way up before slamming back down, spearing himself soundly on Steve’s cock. He did it again and again, the breath punched out of him as he rode Steve for all he was worth. Bucky’s cock jutted out, hard and proud and dripping, bobbing in the air as he fucked himself with Steve’s cock. Steve reached for it, wanting to get his hand around it again, but Bucky batted his hands away. He grabbed his cock for himself, stroking with both hands, moving in time with the brutal pace he was setting.

Steve tried to meet Bucky’s movements, tried to lift his hips, to fuck up into Bucky even as he was coming down onto Steve. But Bucky was determined. He was so in charge that it was all Steve could do to grip the bed sheets beneath him for purchase, to hold on as Bucky dominated him. He grunted and moaned, the sounds torn out of him. He knew he was being loud, but he didn’t care, because it was nothing compared to Bucky. He was sobbing, wailing, practically howling as he fucked himself. His pace grew faster and faster, relentless as he slammed himself down, pushing Steve into the mattress. His hands moved on his cock so fast it had to be almost painful.

“Yes,” Steve said. The sound was barely recognizable as a word, but he continued anyway. “That’s it, Bucky, that’s it. Take what you need, you can have it, fucking take it.”

Bucky crashed down again, once, twice, rolling his hips as he went, making stars burst behind Steve’s eyes. And then Bucky was crying, screaming as he came, his muscles going so tight around Steve’s cock that his vision went momentarily black. Steve’s own orgasm was pulled ruthlessly from him. He emptied himself into Bucky even as Bucky painted Steve’s chest with come.

Bucky slowed. He went until he was no longer lifting himself up, but more grinding on Steve, little movements, like he was done but wanted to keep the feeling going for a little while longer. Finally, when the aftershocks had passed and his cock had started to flag, Bucky seemed satiated. They were both trembling, sweaty and out of breath and filthy.

Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.

Slowly, Steve lowered himself down and slumped flat against the bed. He was still inside Bucky, but he was content to let Bucky warm his cock for as long as he wanted to. It wasn’t exactly a hardship.

To Steve’s great disappointment, eventually Bucky did pull off, letting Steve’s cock slip from his body as he moved off to the side. He rolled away, just out of reach, his back to Steve, as they both lay there and tried to recover. Steve couldn’t help but stare. Bucky’s skin was red with marks and fever, his shoulders heaving as he struggled to regain his breath. Steve ached to pull him closer, to wrap his arms around Bucky and bury his face in Bucky’s neck. To breath him in until he was drowning in Bucky. He could see Bucky’s neck, the skin infuriatingly smooth and unbroken where the bond mark should be. And _god_ , nothing seemed right in the world now that that mark was gone. Steve wanted to fix it, overcome with the need to sink his teeth into Bucky’s skin, to claim him over and over and over until the entire world knew that Bucky belonged to _him_.

His desire was so strong, he found himself moving forward of his own accord before he stopped himself, digging his fingers into the mattress until his knuckles ached.

No. He couldn’t do that. Bucky had flinched when Steve had touched him. No matter what he said, he had to be uncomfortable on some level. He didn’t even remember Steve. So in what world did that give Steve the right to call Bucky his own? _You did this for Bucky, to help him through the heat_ , he reminded himself savagely. _You can forget about the damn bond._

“Are you alright?” Steve asked, more to distract himself than anything.

“Mhm-hmm,” Bucky nodded. His eyes were closed, his posture more relaxed than Steve had seen him yet. Funny that it should be now, when he was lying stark naked in Steve’s bed, covered in his own come, slick coating his thighs and rapidly fading bite marks littering his shoulders. “Fucking thirsty.”

Thirsty. Of course. Steve wanted to smack himself. Water. Protein. Bucky’s body needed more than just sex during a heat, and he was a terrible mate to have forgotten that. Purposefully, he swallowed down the dour voice in the back of his head that asked whether he was still Bucky’s mate at all.

“Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll be right back.” And with that, Steve rolled out of the bed, leaving Bucky to lightly doze until the next wave came.

==⍟==

Bucky’s heat continued throughout the night, the intensity of it waxing and waning as his body battled for control over itself. At times he was calm and collected, and those were the rare moments when both of them were able to catch their breath and gulp down some water before the heat started to stir again. 

But for the most part, Bucky was insatiable. It was exactly as overwhelming as Bruce had warned it might be. Steve had never witnessed anything like it, and he’d been there for Bucky’s first heat, and again after Azzano when Bucky had been forced off the mild dose of suppressants he’d been on. But nothing came close to this one. Bucky’s body burned with fever, and Steve used everything at his disposal to help; his mouth, his hands, his cock, until finally even Steve’s serum-enhanced body wasn’t able to keep up. Eventually, they resorted to toys, even though Bucky had griped at the idea. Steve made sure to be brutally efficient, fucking Bucky senseless until he was screaming and crying and gasping. In the calm moments in between, Steve gave him food and water, at one point dunked him into a cool bath to bring down his temperature. That little venture ended with water soaking the bathroom floor and part of the hallway when Bucky pulled Steve in after him. Steve bent him over the lip of the tub to fuck him, water sloshing out onto the floor with every thrust. 

It went on for ages; longer than Steve had imagined a heat could. Somewhere around 3 am, Bucky’s body gave up as well. He passed out soundly in Steve’s bed, ruined sheets tangled around his feet and toys scattered around him. Sometime after that, despite a rather valiant effort to stay awake and clean… _everything_ , Steve dropped off into a dreamless sleep of his own. 

Morning came far too early. Steve’s eyes were crusted over with sleep as he groggily attempted to open them. In the distance he could hear the shower running, the water gurgling through the pipes in the walls. It took far more effort than he would have liked to admit to haul his body out of bed. He was sore from head to foot, the aftereffects of a night of heat-sex strangely akin to the beating his body took during battle. 

He closed his eyes, listening to the steady patter of water, and imagined what it would be like to open the bathroom door and join Bucky in the shower. They’d fucked a dozen different ways last night, but now he wanted something gentler. The warm water raining down on his face and chest as he slid into where Bucky would be pink and tender after the rough night. Spreading his palms flat over Bucky’s chest while Bucky leaned back into him, the shower cleaning away any evidence of the mess they might make. His chest ached with the craving to make the vision real, to join Bucky in the shower, and for it to be light, and easy. 

But it wasn’t his place. He turned his eyes away from the door as he reminded himself very sternly of that fact. Sex didn’t mean a damn thing, really, especially these days. He’d been helping Bucky. Doing what was required of him as a friend and as a _mate-not-mate_. No matter how much he might wish for more, anything else would be up to Bucky and what he wanted.

Steve could have sat there driving himself crazy for the rest of time if his stomach hadn’t had other, louder ideas. He chuckled at the obscenely loud growl of hunger, and it quickly turned into a choking laugh, tension driving itself from him in swells. It felt good to laugh. God knows it had been long enough since he had. 

Luckily, the kitchen was fully stocked. He supposed he could thank Pepper for that. Tony, for all that he was a genius with all things technical, couldn’t find his way around a kitchen if his life depended on it. Steve could vouch for that in fact. He’d been the recipient of several of Tony’s failed cooking experiments before he’d finally thrown in the towel. 

He pulled thick slabs of homemade bread from the cupboard and eggs from the fridge, not knowing if he had the mental fortitude to go much more complicated than fried eggs and toast. He was ravenous, his stomach reminding him every few minutes that it was distressingly empty. Bucky was probably the same. He’d been able to eat with the best of them before. Add a faux version of the serum and a 14 hour heat, and he could probably eat enough for an entire army. 

Steve cracked six eggs into a skillet, considered it for a moment, and then cracked in two more before muttering _‘fuck it’_ under his breath and making it an even dozen. A pleasant sizzling sound filled the air as he moved on to the bread. Steve worked himself in a complacent rhythm, enjoying the early morning sunlight as it streamed in through the kitchen windows. Motes of dust danced in the scant light as he quietly buttered the toasted bread and flipped the eggs. The kitchen was warm and cozy, and for a moment he felt at peace. 

He felt more than heard it when Bucky entered the kitchen. He’d noted the shower shutting off some time ago, but still, it came as a small surprise that Bucky had joined him willingly. Steve had been sure he’d have to track Bucky down to get some food into him. Maybe this would be better than he thought. 

“How are you feeling?” Steve asked, keeping one eye on the stove as he turned to glance at Bucky. 

“Fine,” came the curt answer. 

“Okay,” Steve nodded. “Good, good. I was thinking-“

“We don’t have to do this.” 

That caught Steve’s attention, and he turned sharply towards Bucky. His scent had calmed down since the night before, no longer quite as all-consuming as it had been. But now what was there was mixed with the scent of Steve himself. Bucky had used his shampoo, and he was wearing one of Steve’s old pairs of sweatpants, the cuffs rolled slightly at the ankle to keep them off the ground. He looked and felt and smelt like he belonged to Steve, and that hurt more than anything because Steve knew it wasn’t true. 

“This?” he asked tentatively, still somehow holding out hope for something that had long since passed. 

“This.“ Bucky waved a hand in the air, as if to say _‘everything’_. “Pretending. It’s fine. We’re good.” 

Steve bit down on his tongue to stop himself from saying anything. So much for small victories, then. Nothing had changed. The two of them had had sex. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Maybe he hadn’t quite kept all of the hurt off of his face, because Bucky sighed and said, “I’m sorry. It was… kind of you, to help me. You didn’t have to. I know it can’t be easy.”

“It wasn’t-“

“It was,” Bucky said calmly. “You don’t have to act like it wasn’t.” He took a deep breath. “But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I can’t… be who you want me to be, because that’s just not who I am right now. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know my own body.” He held up his metal hand as if to illustrate his point, slowly curling the fingers into a fist. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been telling me I’m this person, but I don’t know _who that person is_. And I tried - I’m _trying_ \- to find him, but there’s nothing there. It’s just me. Not him.”

Steve’s eyes had gone wide as he blinked back sudden tears. That had never been his intention. He’d never meant to make Bucky feel like this. 

“Bucky,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I never meant- I never meant to force-“ He kept choking on his words, his sentences stuttering to a stop. 

“You didn’t force anything,” Bucky said. “This body,” he tapped his own chest with his metal fist, “keeps telling me it wants you. I’m not an idiot. I can read it well enough. I just don’t know if I can trust it.” 

And that was… Steve had been giving Bucky far too little credit. He’d marked Bucky down as hurt and angry since his return, but it was more than that. It wasn’t just that he was upset. It was that he wasn’t even sure if he was a person at all. And what must that feel like? Steve, for all his faults and flaws, had always, _always_ , known exactly who he was. Even when he’d had to figure out his role in a brand-new century, in a world that seemed to have moved on without him, at least he’d still known himself. 

Steve buried himself in his task, turning around quickly to face the stove and scoop the last of the eggs off the skillet and onto a pair of plates. He used the time to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes as well. He waited an additional moment, trying to spare Bucky a bit of privacy of his own, before he brought the plates over to the table. Sliding a plate in front of each chair, he raised an eyebrow at Bucky. 

“Eat? Please. I promise there’s no strings attached.”

Bucky hesitated, but the smell of the food seemed to be too much for him to resist. The chair scraped loudly across the tile as he sat down and immediately began to inhale his food, clearly ravenous. Steve’s own food lay untouched as he tried to put his thoughts into words that would make sense. 

“I won’t ask you to trust me,” he said softly. Bucky looked up but continued to eat, clearly content to let Steve continue. “But I want you to know, I am here for you. Whatever you need. No exceptions.” He cleared his throat as it threatened to close on him. “But like you said, I won’t pretend it’s not hard for me. I know you don’t remember us, or our life. But I do. I remember all of it. And I would give anything to see you whole and happy again. Even if it’s not with me.”

Bucky’s eyes were on the table as he spoke. “I don’t mean to make it hard.”

“I know you don’t,” Steve said. 

But it was hard. No matter the intention. It was an impossible situation; for the both of them. 

In a quiet, cautious voice, Bucky said, “I think I do. Remember.”

Steve’s eyes went wide as the fork he’d just picked up slid back out of fingers and onto the table with a clatter. “You do?”

Bucky’s eyes darted from side to side. “Some things,” he clarified quickly. “Flashes, maybe. I think. I’m not really sure.” 

Steve’s heart was beating a hectic rhythm against his ribcage as he struggled to stay calm. “What do you mean?”

Bucky looked like he greatly regretted starting this conversation at all. “Just... flashes,” he said again. “You said I don’t remember, and I don’t, but… flashes.”

Steve had never known such a simple word could be so maddening. 

“It’s more feelings, than anything,” Bucky said slowly. “Cold. I remember cold. A lot of it. And-“ He paused. “I don’t know how much of it is real. If _any_ of it is real. But sometime last night, I woke up and I was… panicking. Blood in my ears and my heart going crazy, and I needed _something_ , but I didn’t know...“

Steve nodded, encouraging him to continue. 

“I didn’t know what it was,” Bucky said. “And then, I turned over and you were there, and you were _breathing_ , and as soon as I saw you, I was fine. I could sleep again. So that’s why I’m saying… flashes. I don’t know why that happened. Just that it did, and there was a feeling associated with it. Maybe it’s not a memory. But it’s something.”

In an instant, Steve had been transported. He wasn’t in Tony’s Tower, but in the tiny apartment that he and Bucky had called their own back before the war. It was so small that the kitchen also served as the living room, as well as practically half of the bedroom, but it was cozy, and safe, and _theirs_. He looked up and the Bucky before him was young, and vibrant, and beautiful; untouched by war and grief and pain. And Steve… Steve was the sickly mess that he had been, but he was happy. He had taken it for granted back then. He regretted that now. 

“You used to do that,” Steve whispered. 

“Do what?”

“I was sick. For a long, long time, my entire life really,” Steve said. “And we didn’t have any money, not that it would have mattered much if we did. There wasn’t much they could have done. My body just wasn’t strong. I used to have so much trouble breathing, especially in the winter. You always acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I think you just didn’t want me to see you worry. But at least once a week, I would wake up and you were staring at me, watching me breathe. You always denied it, but I know that’s what you were doing.” 

“Oh,” Bucky said simply. His eyes were glued on his now-empty plate, nothing but crumbs left. “You seem… better now.”

Steve laughed, short and sudden. “Better is a relative term, I think. Physically, yes. I’m great. Everything else… I take it day by day.”

Bucky was silent for so long that Steve wondered if the conversation was over and he simply hadn’t realized it yet. He picked at his food as they sat in silence. He’d been practically starving earlier, but now he found his appetite had fled. 

“Do you ever wish it hadn’t happened?” Bucky asked.

Steve raised an eyebrow, unsure of what had prompted the question. 

“Whatever made you this way,” Bucky explained. “Do you ever wish you were still the old you?”

It wasn’t something that Steve had given a large amount of thought to in a long, long time. Not since he’d first woken up out of the ice, scared and confused and so, so alone. Regardless, he discovered his thoughts on the matter apparently hadn’t changed. “Sometimes,” he said truthfully. “I never thought I’d make it much past my 20s when I was growing up, and I was… okay with that. I had you. I had my Ma. I was happy. Poor and sick, but happier than I had any right to be. But then the war came, and the serum, and now here I am. Things these days are more… complicated. I don’t necessarily think that means that they’re better.”

Bucky pondered his words, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t know if I should be upset or not. About the fact that I’m here. From what you say, I should be dead. But I don’t know that that would be any better.”

“Well, you can trust me when I say that I’m happy you’re alive,” Steve said. He wanted, more than anything, to lean forward and kiss Bucky. To bring their mouths together until the rest of the crappy world had been shut out completely and it was just the two of them left. Unintentionally, he felt himself leaning in, transfixed by Bucky’s lips and by the memories of the previous night. 

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly and Steve jerked back, embarrassed. “So what now?” Bucky asked.

Steve didn’t know exactly what he was referring to, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t involve taking Bucky back to the bedroom and throwing him down on the bed. And he couldn’t help but be a tad disappointed by that. 

“What’s next?” Bucky clarified.

Steve took one last look at his uneaten breakfast and sighed. His stomach was in so many knots he didn’t see how he’d ever get it down. So instead, he stood and grabbed the plates, stacking them haphazardly in the sink before starting the water. This would be easier to ask, he thought, if he didn’t have to look Bucky in the eyes. 

“Are you going to stay?”

Bucky’s voice was cautious. “I suppose so. There’s nowhere else for me to go right now. And besides... the bond.” 

Like Steve could ever forget about the damn thing. “Well,” Steve said, deliberately casual, as if being aloof about the situation would lessen the blow to himself. “The Tower is huge. Plenty of room. I’m sure Tony can find you a place to stay.”

Bucky paused, and then, “Do you think I could-“

The shrill ring of his phone surprised Steve so much that the soapy dish slipped from his hands, shattering at his feet. He heard the scrape of chair legs on tile as Bucky sprang back, and when Steve whirled around to look, Bucky was backing towards the doorway, guard up. The relaxed air of the morning vanished as rapidly as the sun before a storm. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve said quickly, reaching down to collect the broken pieces of ceramic. He hissed as he closed too hard on a fragment, slicing his thumb. Bucky started towards him, but Steve held out his injured hand to stop him. “I’ve got this. Can you please just grab my phone for me?”

Moments later, as he scooped up the last of the broken crockery, Bucky had picked up his phone and handed it over. Steve checked the screen with a cursory glance before accepting the call. 

“Yes?” he said, short and curt. 

_“Jeez,”_ came the answer on the line. _“I figured you’d at least be in a better mood given the colossal amount of sex you’ve been having-“_

“Tony,” Steve said, his voice warning. He was very much not in the mood for this today. 

_“Fine, fine. No one here has a sense of humor. All work and no play, etcetera etcetera.”_

“What do you want, Tony?” Steve asked again, exasperated. 

_“Conference room. Now. Something’s come up.”_ Tony paused, which was unusual. For as long as Steve had known him, Tony hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut. _“Just you.”_

Steve glanced quickly at Bucky, who had backed up a few feet and was now staring squarely at Steve. “Is everything okay?”

 _“Oh yeah, everything’s peachy.”_ Tony’s voice was deceptively light. _“Just a bit of a pest problem. We could really use your input on how to beat it.”_

The line went dead and as he put the phone away, Steve glanced again at Bucky, torn between wanting to stay and continue hashing things out, and wanting to flee and never think about any of this ever again. They had been getting somewhere, finally. Or at least it had felt like they were. Somehow, no matter how much he told himself he had to, Steve couldn’t seem to give up his vain hope that something would change. That Bucky would suddenly remember and come running back into his arms. He needed to let it go. One night wasn’t enough to change anything. Bucky needed time and space to heal. He needed to not be attached at the hip to Steve. 

Steve turned the faucet and the flow of water cut off, the apartment strangely quiet without it. He held a dishtowel to his finger, the small cut already starting to scab over. At his current injury rate, he had to be giving the serum a run for its money. 

“I need to step out for a while,” he said. “Will you be okay on your own?”

Bucky just looked at him, his expression enough to tell Steve what a stupid question that had been. 

“Right,” Steve said, answering himself. “Help yourself to anything. If you have any questions, just ask Jarvis, and if you need me, have him call. And… I’ll ask Tony about getting your own place set up by the end of the day. 

Coward that he was, Steve turned tail and left the kitchen without waiting for Bucky’s response.


	10. Chapter 10

There was a matching bleak countenance on the faces of Tony, Nat, and Sam when Steve entered the room. What had been a mild, background sort of anxiety quickly grew as he felt his stomach drop.

One glance around the room showed him the source of their current problem. Resting on the tabletop was Tony’s ever-present tablet. It was tuned to one of the Tower’s many security camera feeds. Steve recognized the grainy image on the screen as the lobby of the Tower, but to his surprise it was completely void of people. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d seen the lobby empty. The Avengers weren’t the only people who worked out of the Tower; Stark Industries, along with several smaller companies all took up residence on the lower floors, and the lobby was usually packed to bursting with people no matter the time of day or night.

Now there was only one person. Clearly they were aware of the camera, as they stepped closer and waved cheerfully at it. Low-quality as the image may have been, Steve would have recognized that face anywhere.

Rumlow.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Steve asked, scowling at the tablet as if it had wronged him personally.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Tony said. His arms were folded across as his chest as he sat perched on the edge of the table. His brow seemed to be in a permanent furrow these days. “He just strolled up this morning. I’ve already had security clear everyone out of the lobby, but we wanted to wait until you got here before we decided what to do next.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, and though the word came out from between gritted teeth, he did genuinely mean it. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the blurry figure of Rumlow as he paced back and forth in the empty lobby. The last time he’d seen this member of his former STRIKE team, they’d been exchanging blows in Pierce’s dining room. Just seeing his face made Steve remember the stinging betrayal he’d felt, the old wounds opened up anew.

“So what do you know about this idiot?” Tony asked.

Steve’ had worked with Rumlow extensively over the last year. They’d spent nights and weekends together on missions, endless hours hunkered down on stakeouts, dodging bullets during firefights. But now, looking at Rumlow through the lens of the black and white camera, Steve realized that the answer was ‘surprisingly little’. He’d spent more hours with his team than he had at home, and yet he knew next to nothing about them. When had he gotten so out of touch? When had he decided to let this century slip by him in his desperate attempt to hang onto the old one?

Natasha saved him from having to admit any of it out loud. “He’s not an idiot,” she said bleakly of Rumlow. 

Tony made a face as he shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s not,” she continued, pushing aside Tony’s levity. “And I think labeling him as one would be a mistake. We can’t underestimate him. He’s ruthless and cold, but he’s also smart. And he’s got Pierce’s ear. That alone should be enough to take him seriously.”

“So why do you think he’s here?” Sam asked. He alone was seated, legs crossed at the knee and his hands steepled together as he thought.

Natasha’s expression was severe. “Nothing good. That much I can guarantee.”

“Never say never,” Sam said, cocking his head as he spoke. “Could be a peace offering for all we know.”

Steve knew it wasn’t a joke. He knew that Sam had nothing but the best intentions at heart, but despite all that he only just barely managed to contain the laughter that threatened to bubble up out of him. The very thought of making peace with Hydra after what they’d done to Bucky… maybe Sam was a good enough man for that, but Steve certainly wasn’t.

“No point speculating,” Steve said, making up his mind on the spot. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“We’ll go with you,” Sam said immediately, and Steve felt warmth blossom in his chest.

“No,” Nat said. Sam looked surprised, but Steve wasn’t. Natasha had been around the block more than enough times to know how these sorts of situations went. “Rumlow’s a jackass, but he’s not stupid. We outnumber him, and he loses control of the conversation. He’s not going to accept that. If we want to get any information out of him, we need to keep it on his terms.”

Again, Steve glanced at the tablet. Rumlow was back to facing the camera, the wide-angle lens stretching his grin into something straight out of a nightmare. _“Hellooo,”_ Rumlow called. His voice had a strange, electronic quality to it over the live feed. He waved at the camera, his hand so close that it blacked out the entire screen. _“I want to speak to Captain America.”_

“Well, I guess that answers that,” Tony said, his lips twisting into a frown.

Steve made several quick calculations in his head as he turned to Sam. “I want everyone out of the building. All the civilians. We don’t know what he’s planning.”

“You got it,” Sam said, standing up and pushing his chair back. He was gone before Steve had even had a chance to thank him for it.

“Don’t worry,” Tony said. “Once you’re down there just stick close to the cameras. We’ll be able to hear everything. If shit starts to go down, we’ve got your back.”

While he appreciated the dedication and loyalty of his team, Steve wasn’t particularly worried about this match-up. He could hold his own with Brock fucking Rumlow. After all, he’d already done it once, and truth be told, he wouldn’t say no to another chance to punch Rumlow in the face.

“Steve,” Nat said warningly. How she was able to read his thoughts so precisely, Steve would never know. “Try not to kill him.”

This time, it was Steve’s turn to shrug. “No promises.”

Natasha saw him as far as the elevator. She waved him off as he pressed the button for the ground floor. “Don’t kill him,” she reminded him, raising her voice to be heard as the doors shut firmly.

And it was all well and good to promise that he wouldn’t do anything to Rumlow when he was still tucked up in the safety of the Tower. But his tension rose with every floor that he descended, and by the time he’d reached the lobby, he was near to boiling over. The second he caught sight of Rumlow’s smug face, he felt his hands curl into tight fists at his side.

“Steve Rogers,” Rumlow practically crowed the moment Steve stepped off of the elevator. “Long time, no see.”

“Lucky me,” Steve replied without humor.

Rumlow looked the same as Steve remembered. His face was the same; the angular jaw and dark scruff as familiar as anything, but now there was something in his eyes. Something that Steve had never seen before. A kind of cruelty that Rumlow seemed to take special delight in. Maybe, Steve thought as he watched Rumlow through narrowed eyes, maybe he’d always been this way, but Steve had been too preoccupied to see it.

Above one of Rumlow’s eyes was a nasty cut, the black stitching a stark contrast to his pale skin. Faded, mottled bruising defined the edges of his eye socket and cheek bone, greens and blues fading into sickly yellow and dull brown.

“Like it?” Rumlow asked casually, his fingers seeking out the bruised skin. “You should. After all, you did give it to me.”

Steve smiled. “Well I’m just glad you’re enjoying it as much as I did.”

Rumlow seemed entirely nonplussed, and somehow that made Steve even angrier. He could feel the last few day’s worth of rage boiling in his gut like a poison.

“Why are you here, Brock?”

“First names?” Rumlow raised an eyebrow, and the cut rose with it. Really, Steve thought desperately, would it be so bad if Steve just killed him right here? Sure people might be angry, but it would feel so good. “I didn’t know we were there yet, but alright _Steve_.”

Steve glared at him, and Rumlow rolled his eyes.

“You’re a lot of fun, has anyone ever told you that?” he continued, which was wise, because Steve had absolutely no intention of rising (any further) to his bait. “I’m here with a message from my boss.”

Pierce. Neither of them had to say it.

“And what does that piece of shit have to say?” Steve asked coldly.

Rumlow put a hand to his heart in fake outrage. “That’s some pretty foul language for America’s sweetheart. Although… you have been watching the news, haven’t you? The country’s not feeling as friendly towards you as they used to.”

Steve wasn’t going to get mad, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, _he wasn’t_. All it would do was prolong this meeting, and it had already gone on far too long for Steve’s liking. He wanted more than anything in the world to crawl into a hot shower and scrub off his skin, but first he had to see this thing out.

“Well, maybe you should talk to your boss about that,” Steve replied calmly.

Rumlow shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, he’s been a little busy lately. Don’t worry though. His schedule should be wide open in a few days.”

Something about the way he said it set Steve on edge. He felt his breath quicken as his pulse started to rise. This felt like the information they were after. “A few days? What’s happening in a few days?”

 _“Tsk-tsk,”_ Rumlow waved a finger at him, and Steve entertained the very vivid picture that flashed through his mind of breaking that finger off. “If I told you, it would ruin the surprise.”

Fuck what he’d promised Natasha. Steve started angrily towards him, ready to beat the answers out of him if he had to.

“I wouldn’t!” Rumlow said quickly, putting up a hand to stop him. Then slowly, carefully, he withdrew the hand until his fingers were resting on the top button on his shirt. Steve blinked. Now that Rumlow had pointed it out, the camera was obvious. A small, innocuous, black thing pinned to Rumlow’s shirt. Steve had seen them used a thousand times for missions. He cursed himself now for missing it so easily.

“Live feed,” Rumlow said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think footage of Captain America attacking a member of his own team would go over very well right now.”

Steve gritted his teeth so hard he thought he felt his jawbone crack. “Give me your goddamn message and get the fuck out of this city,” he hissed, because if he raised his voice any louder he worried he’d start screaming and never stop.

“Alright, alright,” Rumlow raised his hands. “I just came to tell you that Pierce knows you’ve got his property, and he wants it back.”

For a second, just a tiny blip of time, Rumlow’s words didn’t sink in, and then-

“How _dare_ you-“

Rumlow pointed quickly at the camera again, but much of his smug air had vanished as he jumped back. Steve took a perverted kind of pleasure in his fear. Good. Let him feel just a fraction of what Bucky felt. It was no more than he deserved. Ironically, it was the thought of Bucky that calmed him down. He had to do what was right for Bucky now, and if that meant keeping his shit together long enough to listen to Rumlow, then so be it.

“We know you’ve been keeping it here,” Rumlow continued. “And don’t worry. The boss isn’t mad. After all,” he made a face, “you let a dog off its leash, you can’t be mad when it tries to run away.”

Steve’s vision had gone black and white. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the pulsing of his blood in his veins.

Rumlow seemed to recognize that he was pushing Steve quickly past the point of no return, and said quickly, “Don’t worry. We’re not entirely heartless.”

Steve very, very much doubted that was true.

“We’ll give you a few days to… say goodbye. But then I’ll be back to collect.”

He held out his hand to shake, and Steve hoped every bit of the disdain that he felt showed on his face. Rumlow, as always, seemed unperturbed by Steve’s lack of reciprocation. Instead of taking the hint, he stepped closer, and closer, until they were sharing the same air. Steve stiffened, his fingernails digging into his skin so hard he felt them puncture his palms.

“Don’t worry,” Rumlow said. His voice was pitched so low that Steve could barely hear, his tone creeping and insidious. “Sooner than you know, none of this will matter. Sometimes it just takes a little insight for us to see things clearly.”

==⍟==

“What the fuck was that?” Tony asked before Steve had caught his breath. He’d opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, running all 80 floors in an attempt to exercise out some of his primal rage.

“Where’s Nat?” Steve asked, ignoring Tony’s question.

“Following that Hydra psychopath,” Tony said. “Now I repeat, _what the fuck was that?_ ”

Suddenly all of Steve’s energy was gone, and he collapsed into the nearest chair. His breath was labored in a way that had nothing at all to do with his wild dash up the stairs. He’d been too angry in the moment to really process what Rumlow had said, but now, in relative safety and surrounded by his friends, the truth was almost too awful to contemplate.

“They want Bucky,” Steve said, and even as the words left his mouth he knew he would never, _ever_ let it happen, not while he was still breathing.

Tony looked at him like he’d said something particularly stupid. “Yeah, no shit. That’s obviously not happening.”

For all the shit that he gave Tony, for all that the two of them fought and bickered and argued, when it really mattered Tony hadn’t hesitated. When this was over, Steve would never stop making sure that the people who mattered to him knew exactly how much he loved them.

But for now, they didn’t have time for any of that. “No shit,” Steve agreed simply.

“What did he say?” Sam asked. He was back, so Steve assumed he’d been successful in his efforts to evacuate the civilian portions of the building. Now he had taken up post near the door, leaning tiredly against the doorframe. “He whispered something to you. Mics didn’t pick it up. What was it?”

Steve ignored the acrid taste in his mouth. “He said none of this would matter soon. Said we all just needed some insight.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow in question. If it did, Steve didn’t have a clue as to what. He was just as lost as Sam.

Tony, however, had gone deadly still. When Steve looked at him, his face had gone white as a sheet, and he looked like he was about to vomit.

“Tony?” Steve asked cautiously.

“Are those the _exact_ words that he used?”

“Close enough for horseshoes, anyway,” Steve said uneasily. He was already feeling off-kilter, and Tony’s sudden strange behavior was setting off all sorts of alarm bells in his head. “What’s going on?”

“I- I’m not sure, I think-“

Steve recognized that look; he’d seen it a thousand times since he’d met Tony. Tony’s brain had taken off so fast that it had left the rest of his body behind. Steve had never met anyone so brilliant and so maddening. He knew from experience that Tony would be completely useless until he’d worked through whatever it was his mind had decided to focus on.

Steve stood, dusting himself off. As he made his way to the door, he hesitated, laying a comforting hand on Tony’s shoulder. “The second you figure something out, alright?”

“Mhm-hmm,” Tony hummed, clearly already lost in his own little world. He’d snatched up his tablet, the security footage gone, replaced by an unending series of screens as Tony pulled up and dismissed thousands of pages of who-knew-what. Steve could only hope that Tony knew what he was doing. 

“Sam?” Steve asked, jerking his head towards the door, a silent request for him to follow.

“Actually…” Sam glanced over at Tony, but the other man was already so far gone into his work that it was doubtful he would’ve heard them if they’d started yelling. “Steve, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go home.”

“Oh.” It would be a lie for Steve to say that he wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t realized quite the extent, but he’d come to rely on Sam these past few days. Sam had a calming effect about him, and even when Steve was at his worst, Sam seemed to know exactly what to say.

It was only too bad that Steve wasn’t quite as good a friend in return. If he’d been looking, _really_ looking, he might have picked up on the haggard lines on Sam’s face or the weary look in his eyes. Sam had upended his life - work, home, family - all to help Steve, with no expectation of being paid back. He was a better man than most. Better than Steve at any rate.

“It’s just,“ Sam continued, twitching his mouth up into an awkward attempt at a smile. “It’s been awhile now, and I can’t miss any more work. I think my sister’s starting to worry I’ve actually been abducted, and I know my mom is getting worried too and-“

“Oh, no, no, of course,” Steve said quickly. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I should have realized.”

“I didn’t exactly say anything.”

“I should have realized anyway,” Steve told him firmly. It wouldn’t do, letting his friends make excuses for his selfish behavior. “Thank you,” he said, stepping forward and hugging Sam tightly. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I really couldn’t’ve. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Stay safe,” Sam said, squeezing him firmly. “And keep him safe too. That’s all I ask.”

The two of them pulled apart and Steve nodded to show he’d understood. There was a strange air of finality to the actions. There was no dramatic goodbye needed; he knew that Sam would be there again when and if Steve needed him. He only hoped that Sam knew the same was true for Steve.

“Oh!” Steve said, a thought occurring to him. “You and Nat. Did you want her number before you go?”

Sam good-naturedly rolled his eyes at Steve. “What, you think the rest of us stop living our lives the moment you’re not around?” He pulled out his new phone, courtesy of Stark Industries, and shook it with a grin. “We got dinner lined up when we’re both back in DC.”

Steve laughed, delighted. It was the best news he’d heard all day.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite Rumlow’s dire words, the next few days slipped by without incident or sign of trouble, and the next few after that, until it had been nearly a month. The team was staying vigilant; Natasha and Clint were both in their element, keeping their ears to the ground for any rumors or hints of movement from Hydra. But there was nothing. Each day that passed with no new information brought with it a strange duality; Steve was at once relieved that no trouble had come to their door, and terrified that something devastating was lurking just over the horizon. In a way, he thought it might be better if they could just get this over with.

Some things had changed. True to his word, Steve had spoken to Tony about Bucky’s living situation. The night after Rumlow’s visit, Bucky had been presented with an apartment to call his own, fully furnished and move-in ready. Watching him go had felt a bit like tearing out his own heart with pliers, but Steve had done it anyway, had even smiled and helped him move the few, meager person items he’d gathered in his few days at the Tower. That night Steve’s own apartment had loomed silent and empty; he’d never before noticed how large it was, made larger still by the absence of his mate. Even his bed had seemed too big, and Bucky had barely spent more than a few hours in it. Funny, how quickly his perception had changed.

And even though it hurt, each day Steve had plastered on his brightest smile and spent time with Bucky, helping him adjust to the Tower and to the century. He was much like Steve had been just out of the ice; able to get by, but thrown off by much of modern life. And their time together was good. They ate most of their meals together, talked, laughed, and argued occasionally. All of it was a pale shadow to what Steve remembered from before, but over time even that started to fade. The sepia-toned memory of Bucky had slowly been rebuilt into the Bucky he saw now; different, but bright and alive.

Bucky didn’t remember much more than what he already had, but Steve had expected as much. Hydra had done a thorough job of wiping his mind, and there was no cure for that, no magic bullet to restore what had been lost. Only time would change anything, and even then there were no guarantees.

If this was the way that life was going to be from now on, Steve could live with that. He could put the old Steve away, tuck him on a high shelf with his memories of the old Bucky to keep him company, and leave them both in the past that they had been ripped from. Let them be happy. Steve was content for now to just watch as Bucky found out who he was now; smart in a quiet, intense sort of way, slow to trust and quick to anger, but surprisingly funny if caught in the right mood. But none of that surprised Steve. At his core, Bucky was Bucky. Even a century of abuse and torture couldn’t take that away.

It had been another maddening day of silence from Hydra. Natasha, out in the field for the night, had reported nothing more than the mundane day-to-day on the radio-waves, and there’d been neither hide nor hair of Rumlow spotted in the city again. Things seemed to be settling into a routine.

Steve had spent the night doing absolutely nothing, and had decided to cap it off with a nap on the couch while he considered whether or not to go bother Bucky about a late supper. He had slipped into a light doze, head propped up on one arm as he leaned into the arm of the couch, when a knock at the door startled him back into wakefulness.

It was Bucky. He’d long ago ditched his combat gear, opting instead for a mix of pullover sweaters and form-fitting jeans on most days. Tonight though, he had chosen a tight athletic shirt. Steve took great pains to look anywhere other than at his chest, where the material clung to his lightly defined muscles. His arm glinted in the hall light; the metal emerging from beneath his shirt sleeve still caught Steve off guard on most days, but he was learning to get used to it. Bucky’s hair was still long, but tonight he’d pulled it back off his face.

“Wanna hit something?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” Steve said with a wicked grin.

He’d been reluctant at first to take Bucky to the gym. It wasn’t open to the public, reserved for the team only, but Steve was still worried the physicality of it would stir up memories for Bucky, ones that weren’t from his life before Hydra. But Steve had quickly realized, after giving in one night and showing Bucky the private gym, that it actually did the opposite. Wearing himself out with exercise seemed to give Bucky balance, to calm him in a way that little else did. So they’d made it a habit, starting mainly with weights and punching bags and cardio. For the last week or so, they’d been having daily sparring matches, and it was a delight to go up against someone who could take Steve at his best. He hadn’t been able to practice without holding back for ages.

_“Oof.”_

Steve’s back hit the mat, hard, knocking the air from his lungs as Bucky barreled him down. Immediately, Steve drew up his legs nearly to his chest, before kicking upwards and outwards, catching Bucky squarely on the ribs. He put some force behind the kick, shoving Bucky back several feet and giving himself time to roll out of the way as he anticipated Bucky’s next move. Seconds later, Bucky’s metal fist slammed into the spot where his head had just been. Steve took the opportunity to scramble to his feet.

Bucky smoothly transitioned his downward momentum into a somersault, coming up on the other side and spinning around to face Steve. The two of them circled each other warily, each studying the other for an opening, hands up and at the ready. Their first few fights had been relatively even matched; both of them learning the other’s fighting habits. Now they were beginning to see each other’s patterns, and changing their own moves accordingly.

Bucky was good. Steve wasn’t surprised; he remembered all too well their fight on Pierce’s lawn. But he relied too much on his metal arm, probably used to letting the brute force of it be the deciding factor in his fights. He was strong, but the finesse he’d had back in his army days was missing. All Steve had to do to put him on edge was dodge his fists.

Not that Steve was without faults of his own. Without his shield to keep combatants at a distance, Steve relied on his lower body to do the work, preferring kicks to keep his opponent off guard. To combat it, Bucky had taken to doing whatever he could to bring Steve to the floor, turning their fights into grappling matches. Displays of brute strength had never been Steve’s strong suit, and taking away his ability to move severely hampered him.

They were still circling each other, Steve taking extreme care to stay out of range of Bucky’s left side. “Dinner after this?” Steve asked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one arm.

Bucky darted forward and Steve stepped back smoothly. Another stalemate. “Only if you promise not to make that thing from last week again,” Bucky answered, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“Hey!” Steve frowned. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Bucky shrugged and danced out of the way of one of Steve’s legs. “It also wasn’t _good_.”

“Oh, I’ll get you for that,” Steve said with mock seriousness, before making a sudden rush towards him. Bucky dodged the first punch, but guessed the wrong direction and took the second squarely in the jaw. His head snapped back as Steve’s fist connected. 

“If this is you trying,” Bucky said, rubbing his jaw, “I hate to tell you, but it’s as bad as your cooking.”

A startled laugh escaped Steve, and he said, “You’re an asshole,” before taking the opportunity to sweep Bucky’s legs out from under him.

Not to be outdone, Bucky was on the move as soon as he hit the mat, kicking out and tangling his legs with Steve’s. He yanked forward and brought Steve down with him. The move surprised Steve, and while he was busy trying to catch his breath from the sudden crash, Bucky clambered on top of him, pinning his arms at his sides.

“I may be an asshole,” he agreed, putting pressure on Steve’s chest with his metal arm, “but at least I’m easy on the eyes.”

Steve couldn’t argue with that, so instead he put all of his strength into throwing himself to the side, taking Bucky with him. He took advantage of Bucky’s momentary confusion to reverse their positions, both of them fighting for control as they grappled on the mats. Steve tried to hook an arm around Bucky’s throat, taking a hit to the sternum that vibrated through his chest in the process.

“Give up yet?” Steve panted.

“Not a chance,” Bucky replied.

And then Bucky did the last thing Steve had expected. It threw Steve off guard so completely that he forgot where he was, all fighting strategy forgotten. Bucky reached up, and instead of trying to hit Steve, he wrapped an arm around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

Steve froze. The hands and knees holding his weight nearly collapsed beneath him out of pure shock as he tried to process what was happening. His brain had screeched to a halt, and he wasted precious seconds blinking in surprise before the rest of him caught up and he began to kiss Bucky back with a fervor. Bucky had taken to biting his lips when he was nervous, or thinking, and now they were swollen and chapped and perfect. He tasted like salt and mint, and the sweat they’d been working up over the last half hour heightened his omega scent to something intoxicating and heady.

Steve dropped down onto his elbows, angling his head and deepening the kiss. Bucky made a noise of contentment in his throat, and Steve smiled into the kiss before he set about doing everything he could to hear that sound again. He licked at Bucky’s bottom lip, delighted at the way that Bucky opened immediately for him. This was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been wanting since that night they had spent together. For all that he’d tried to put the old memories away, when the night got dark and Steve was alone in bed, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to the feel of Bucky’s lips on his, the image of Bucky, panting and moaning beneath him. Nearly every night he gave in, stroking himself until he came with Bucky’s name on his lips, even though he knew it was nothing more than a fantasy.

Bucky pushed, rolling them again, and Steve went willingly. He let himself relax into the mat and Bucky straddled him, taking charge of the kiss. Through their thin athletic clothing, he could feel Bucky starting to swell against his thigh, and he didn’t care that they were in a public space, didn’t care that any member of the team could walk in on them at any time, didn’t care about any of it but Bucky.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky pulled away suddenly, Steve leaning up to chase him, heedless of his words. “I don’t know why I did that,” he said. The expression on his face was distressed and upset and _no, no, no, that wasn’t right at all-_

“It’s alright,” Steve said hastily, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s fine, I-“

Bucky sat back on his heels and the absence of his body against Steve’s was a goddamn crime. “It’s this- this _thing_ ,” Bucky said, frustrated. He slapped a hand to his neck in the exact spot where his bond mark should be. “It just- takes over, sometimes.”

“I know,” Steve said, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice even as he felt it swallowing him whole. “I know, it’s not your fault.”

“It is, I just-“

“You don’t want it,” Steve finished dully. He didn’t need to look at Bucky’s face to know he was right. Bucky had made it more than clear through his actions that the bond mark was something that upset him. And Steve knew he didn’t have any right to be upset about it, didn’t have any right to be angry, or hurt, and yet, here he was, feeling all of those things at once. Luckily for him, he’d had a lot of experience with crushing defeat lately. Might as well lay it all out on the table.

“I…” Bucky looked lost.

“Listen,” Steve said, avoiding Bucky’s eyes. No need to drag this out any longer than it had to be. And god, did it hurt to do this when he could still feel the heat of Bucky’s body on his, still taste Bucky on his lips. But he also knew that if he didn’t do it, then he was no better than Hydra, no better than the people who had held Bucky prisoner and taken away his decisions for god knows how long. “I’ve been talking to Bruce about it. And he thinks he can make it… not go away. That’s not possible. But he thinks he can make it… quieter. Less.”

“The bond?” Bucky asked. His voice had dropped nearly to a whisper, and his hand was back on his neck, fingers clutching at the unmarked skin.

Everything hurt, down to his bones. “Yes,” Steve said. “There’s no way to completely erase it, but he thinks he can hide it. Tuck it away. Make it so that you can leave, when you want to, and you won’t feel like it’s dragging you back here.” The words were caustic acid in his throat, and he felt like vomiting.

Bucky opened his mouth to answer.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Steve didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset, but regardless, he was too numb to feel either. Natasha was standing at the edge of the mats. From the look on her face, she had heard at least the last bit of their conversation.

“Yes, actually,” he said.

She did actually seem sorry; he had to at least give her credit for that. “It’ll have to wait. We’ve got Pierce.”


	12. Chapter 12

The look on Tony’s face was nothing short of absolute, manic glee. He didn’t look like he’d slept since Steve had seen him last, his eyes wide and glassy and hair sticking up at all angles. The conference room looked like it had been hit by some kind of tornado; papers and half-empty cups of coffee covering every surface, and some of the floor as well. Steve skirted cautiously around several precarious piles of documents, trying not to disturb anything as he took one of the only seats not currently occupied by Tony’s things. One by one, the others followed; Clint and Bucky going the route that Steve had and picking their way through the mess, while Bruce and Natasha hung at the edges, staying clear of it all.

“Insight,” Tony said, once they were all gathered. His voice seemed full to bursting with pride at his own accomplishment, whatever it may have been.

Bucky caught Steve’s eyes while Steve shrugged. He had as little clue as the rest of them. “What?” he asked.

“Insight,” Tony repeated, apparently incredulous that Steve hadn’t instantly caught on. “What Rumlow said to you. I knew I had heard it before.”

“It’s not exactly an uncommon word,” Clint said, spinning a little in his chair.

Tony ignored him completely. “I knew I’d seen it in Hydra’s files, I just couldn’t remember where. Well, I finally figured it out.” With a flick of his wrist, he sent an image from his tablet screen to hover above the conference table. ‘Here, and here,” he pointed out. “Once I started looking it’s all over the place, in notes and reports and communications. Here,” he pulled up a new page. “An email from Pierce to the Secretary of Defense. He signs off with a line about insight, and again in another email the next day to the Secretary of State, and-“

“Tony,” Bruce said, stopping Tony’s wild ramble in its tracks.

“Right, sorry,” Tony muttered. “Anyway, I took a deep dive through everything I could find. And I found a _lot_. Most of which made me want to bleach my brain, but eventually I came across this…”

A new document appeared. Infuriatingly, it appeared to be on SHIELD letterhead. Steve got three sentences in before he realized he didn’t have the patience to read it. “What is it?” he asked.

“Project Insight,” Tony replied. “Once I finally figured out what they were referring to, I took another look. They’ve been talking about this project in one form or another for _years_. I tracked more than a dozen offshore accounts used to fund it. Everyone’s got their fingers in this, all the way up to the very top.”

“That’s great,” Steve said, frustrated that it was taking Tony so long to get to his point. “But what exactly is it?”

“The future of security,” Tony said simply.

There was an uneasy silence. No one seemed to know how to respond. Eyes darting back and forth between the rest of the team and the projected document, Clint asked, “Why don’t you sound very happy about that? Security is 99% of your job now.”

“Because none of us should be happy about it,” Tony said, his expression dire. The document disappeared, replaced by a set of blueprints. Tony adjusted something else on the tablet screen, and 3D models popped up, overlaying the plans. Steve reached out, his fingers stopping just shy of the hologram, making the edges of it flicker in and out of being. The structure looked familiar. It looked like…

“The helicarrier?” No matter how much he stared, no clarity came to him. If anything, he thought as he watched the hologram restore itself again and again, he was more confused than ever.

“Not quite,” Tony said. The hologram shimmered and reformed as the image enlarged. It felt a bit like diving headfirst into a computer screen. The sight made Steve’s head swim. “The design is similar, but Project Insight is more advanced than the one you’re used to.

“But it’s still a helicarrier?” Bruce asked. There was a deep frown on his face, and his arms were folded tightly across his chest.

“Three of them, actually,” Tony replied. “Once they’re launched, they’re designed to stay in the air indefinitely. And they’re loaded down with long-range weapons, all automated. No need for live people.”

Steve had a sinking feeling that he knew where this was heading.

“But the real Project Insight isn’t there, it’s here,” Tony said, and the screen changed again, this time to long strings of computer code that Steve couldn’t make heads nor tails of. A glance to his left and right told him that Clint and Bucky were similarly lost. Bruce, however, moved from his spot near the door, stepping closer with his eyes fixed on the screen, a look of dawning horror on his face.

Bruce stepped forward again until he was only a few inches away from the scrolling code. “This is…”

Tony nodded. “They call it a defense program. A way to stop any threats before they happen.”

“How is that possible?” Clint asked.

“It pulls information from every possible source; FBI, CIA, NSA, foreign intelligence, and uses an algorithm to calculate who may be a potential threat.”

“Threat to who?” Steve asked.

“To whoever decides the parameters,” Bruce muttered. All the color had drained out of his face and he looked vaguely nauseous.

“Right,” Tony said. He’d never looked more upset to be right about something in all the time that Steve had known him. “It identifies the targets and eliminates them before they become a problem.”

“Eliminates…” Clint trailed off into the resulting deafening silence.

“It kills them,” Natasha said. She’d barely spoken above a whisper, and yet her words seemed to resonate throughout the room. Like Bruce, she was starting to look like she regretted coming to this meeting in the first place. Steve didn’t blame either of them. If what Tony was saying was true, then this was beyond anything he could have imagined, beyond anything _any_ of them had imagined.

“This is wrong,” Steve said, shaking his head in disbelief. His words weren’t quite strong enough to convey the depth of the issue, but they were all he had. “Preemptive defense isn’t defense. It’s just murder. Hydra’s trying to decide who lives and who dies.” The more he spoke, the more the horror of the situation made itself clear. “Someone disagrees with them, all they have to do is say that their algorithm labeled them a threat. It’s carte blanche to dispose of anybody who gets in their way.” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Except Hydra’s not planning to take the blame.”

Tony nodded, reaffirming Steve’s fears. “That was my thought too. They’re going to put your name behind it, Steve. They’re launching in three days, and they’re planning a massive sweep of anyone they label dissenters. They’ll claim it was your project, and in the ensuing chaos, who’s going to listen to any arguments about it? Public opinion is going to want you drawn and quartered, and by the time it’s all said and done, the helicarriers will be in place and they’ll be no stopping them.”

“No,” Steve said, fuming. He’d always heard the term ‘seeing red’, but didn’t think it was actually possible until now. Under his skin, his muscles were strung as tight as steel cords, and his heart was racing like a jackhammer in his chest. “This is not happening. _We_ are not going to let this happen.”

Tony looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course we aren’t. Why do you think we’re all here?”

Far from calming Steve down, Tony’s statement only served to fuel his anger. “This isn’t a time for jokes, Tony.”

“I’m not joking,” Tony said calmly. “We need a plan. So how about instead of jumping up and hulking out-“ He glanced at Bruce. “No offense.“

“Offense definitely taken,” Bruce muttered, rolling his eyes.

“How about instead of all that, we discuss this like rational adults,” Tony finished.

Natasha cut in before Steve could answer, probably for the best. Directing her attention to Tony, she said, “Did you find anything to tell you where they’re keeping those things? I can’t think of anywhere in the city big enough to store them without drawing attention, and we know they haven’t done that.”

Tony laughed, although it held little humor. “Under the Triskelion.”

All this time. All this time Hydra had been growing in SHIELD, spreading out its tendrils and hooking into the very lifeblood of the organization. All this time they’d been planning and scheming and building weapons of mass destruction, directly under his feet. And Steve hadn’t noticed a damn second of it, hadn’t even had a clue. It was only dumb chance that he’d found Bucky. It made him sick to think what would have happened if he hadn’t chased down Bucky’s scent that night. Bucky would still be a prisoner, and this plan would have gone off without a hitch.

“Tonight,” Steve said, making up his mind quickly. The rest of the team could get on board or get out of his way. Either way, he wasn’t planning on sleeping another night until Pierce - and Hydra - had been buried for good. “We go in tonight. We destroy the helicarriers. I don’t care about keeping it secret. Let’s make it a spectacle. Show the world what’s really been hiding in SHIELD.”

“How?” Clint asked, “What’s your plan here, Steve?”

“Oh!” Tony raised his head and mimed jumping up and down in excitement, like a school-child impatiently waiting to be called on in class. Natasha nodded at him, and Tony grinned at her with a frenzied sort of glee in his brown eyes. “Leave that part to me. After all, I did have a pretty successful weapons business before switching to the whole superhero thing. I’m good at making things go boom.” He mimed an explosion and Natasha rolled her eyes at him.

“That’s the plan?” Bruce asked, looking skeptical. “Explosives? It can’t be that easy.”

“I agree with Bruce,” Steve said.

“Traitor,” Tony muttered, and Steve flashed a middle finger at him.

Natasha seemed to sense it was time to step in again. She was all too used to being the moderator when Tony and Steve got going, even without Bruce thrown into the mix. “Steve,” she said, catching his eyes and then turning, “Bruce. Do you both trust me?”

Slowly Steve nodded. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce do the same.

“Give me a few hours.

Steve opened his mouth to argue. A few hours was far too long for him. He wanted nothing more than to run to DC and strangle the life out of Pierce and Rumlow and anyone else involved in this plan.

“A few hours,” she repeated firmly, drawing his attention back. “Give me that.”

Steve hesitated. It wasn’t good enough. Nothing except justice, swift and immediate, was good enough. His muscles were tense, his body ready to leap out of his chair, when he felt something at his side. Bucky was squeezing his hand beneath the table. He’d been silent for the entire meeting, so still that Steve had nearly forgotten he was there.

“Two hours,” he finally said, looking at Bucky who squeezed his hand even more forcefully under the table. “That’s it. In two hours, we’re doing this thing. I don’t care how.”

“Two hours,” Natasha agreed.

==⍟==

There wasn’t much left to say after that, and everyone went their separate ways. Each member of the team had their own little rituals before a fight, and none of them usually involved all that much chatter. Normally, Steve liked to spend his time in the gym before heading off in the jet to work out his restless energy and keep himself limber. But today, he couldn’t push past the ominous air of the Tower or the bitter taste that the meeting had left in his mouth. He felt like he was wrapped in lead, his entire body dragged down with the weight of the uncertain future. This wouldn’t go well; he already knew that. There was no way that it could; too many unknowns, too many variables. 

So instead he found himself on his private balcony. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten there; the walk to his apartment from the conference room was a bit of a blur, but now that he was here he didn’t have the energy to leave. At some point during the last month or so, winter had well and truly arrived in the city. Frost clung to the railings and the wind that buffeted the balcony sent a chill straight through to his core. The setting sun took with it the last few remnants of warmth as it disappeared beneath the horizon, painting the Tower in broad brush strokes of pink and orange and deep indigo. Below, cars moved on the street and people went about their daily lives as if the world wasn’t about to end. And he supposed that for them, it wasn’t.

“Are you alright?” There was a soft swish and click as the sliding glass doors opened and closed behind him.

Steve laughed out loud, and the wind snatched the sound away. How quickly things could change. Now Bucky was the one asking how _Steve_ was feeling. He wondered if he should be proud of how far they’d come.

“Are you?” Steve asked, in lieu of having to figure out the answer to the question himself. He leaned heavily on the railing, tipping his upper body precariously out over the edge to gaze down at the city.

Bucky didn’t protest Steve’s change of course. He stepped onto the balcony beside Steve, and matched his movements, leaning out as well. When Steve glanced over, Bucky was watching the cars below with interest. He wandered what the city looked like to Bucky, how much of it was new and frightening, and how much of it felt exactly the same. It had been so long since Steve had had to look at New York with fresh eyes. Sometimes he regretted that he’d grown so accustomed to the change.

“Scared,” Bucky said finally, an air of confession to his words.

Unbidden, memories of the night before Bucky had shipped out for basic came to Steve’s mind. Bucky had been confident and cocky, as he always was. It wasn’t until the dead of night, when their room had been pitch black and their bodies were tangled together on the bed, that Bucky had let slip that he was frightened. Steve had held him through the night, and in the morning it was like the entire thing had never happened. He only wished that he could hold Bucky again now, take away his fear, even if only for a little while.

“I-“ Steve started, instantly discarding his words. They all seemed hollow and insincere. The only thing that didn’t was the truth. “So am I,” Steve admitted. He wasn’t even sure what exactly he was afraid of. All he knew was that the future seemed to be bearing down on them, dark and unsure. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if anything went wrong. At the very least, he’d lose Bucky or his friends. At the most, millions of innocent people would die. The pressure was unbearable, and Steve longed to curl up in his bed and never leave.

“Didn’t think you were the type to get scared,” Bucky huffed. His dark waves of hair obscured his face so that Steve couldn’t read his expression. Not that he’d had the best luck with that these days anyway.

“I do,” Steve said. “I think I’m more scared now than I ever was as that scrawny little kid back in Brooklyn.” He laughed bitterly. “I had so much to lose back then. You. My Ma. My health. But when you live with that kind of fear everyday you get accustomed to it. And then I kept getting older, and sicker, and I figured after a while that I’d be the one to go first. Didn’t think I’d have to deal with the fallout.” He looked at Bucky. The sun had truly set now, and Bucky’s features were blurred with shadow. “It’s different now. I don’t know if I can handle that kind of loss.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve shook his head, his hair ruffled by the wind. “Nothing for you to be sorry about. My issues run deep enough to make any good therapist cry.” He smiled, and hoped that Bucky could hear it in his voice. “Don’t be too flattered.”

Bucky sighed and sagged against the railing. “I’m sorry. That I’m not him.”

Steve looked at him sharply. Bucky’s hair still covered his face, but something had changed about his posture. He was tense, body held in a sort of limbo as if he was waiting for a blow that wouldn’t come. Even the air between them felt tight.

“I want to be, sometimes,” Bucky continued. His voice was so low that Steve might have been dreaming it. “I know it makes you sad that I’m not.”

“No, no,” Steve said automatically, horrified at the very thought. But then Bucky looked up at him, finally, and the look in his eyes stopped Steve dead in his tracks. His eyes were huge in the dark, the pupils dilated, and Steve felt like he might be drowning in them. “Yes.” And though the honesty stung, it also felt _right_. “It does make me sad. But none of that is your fault.”

Bucky cocked his head. “Do you hate him?”

Where on earth was he getting these questions? Every word out of his mouth made Steve’s chest ache, made him feel like a butterfly pinned to a cork board, dissected and labelled for everyone to see what was inside.

“I could never hate him,” Steve shook his head. Around them, the air had stilled, the wind giving them a temporary respite from its chill. Even the sounds of the city seemed far away as the night pressed in around them. They could have been the only two people left in the universe. 

“I think I might hate him,” Bucky whispered. Steve stepped closer, unable to break away if he’d tried. “He was weak. Stupid. Selfish, to survive all that. Dying would have been better. Less people would have been hurt if he’d just let go.”

“He wasn’t selfish,” Steve said vehemently. His heart was ripping in two, half of it left buried in the past, and the other half painfully present as he listened to Bucky speak.

“He died,” Bucky argued, and now his tone had turned harsh, his eyes glittering with sudden anger. “He left you alone. You should hate him.”

“He didn’t leave me by choice.” Steve’s words caught in his throat, every syllable torn out of him by force. “And Hydra would have found a way to make the Winter Soldier, with or without him. I don’t hate him for surviving. I could never hate him.” He paused, and his cheeks were wet, tears slipping down his face and turning cold against his skin. “If he hadn’t survived, I wouldn’t have gotten you.”

Bucky looked at him; his face was unreadable, his eyes wide in the dark. His hand came up, the one made of flesh and blood, and Steve watched, mesmerized, as it came to rest on Steve’s chest, directly over his heart. And then slowly, deliberately, Bucky leaned forward and kissed him.

It was nothing like their previous kisses. Those had been rushed, painful, and confused. This had purpose behind it. Intent. No one was reacting here. Instead, they were both _choosing_ this. Bucky stepped closer, trapping his hand between the two of them, his palm fiery hot on Steve’s chest. His other hand came up as well, cupping the back of Steve’s head, the metal fingers surprisingly gentle as they slipped through Steve’s hair. In return, Steve traced his own fingers along Bucky’s jaw, under his throat to where he could feel the delicate beat of his pulse.

Bucky tasted like mint and the salt from Steve’s own tears. He thought he might still be crying, but he didn’t care. As long as he was kissing Bucky things were right in the world.

After a few seconds, they pulled apart, and Steve’s lips tingled where they’d touched.

“It got you me,” Bucky said with a small, rueful smile. “I can’t help but think you may have gotten the short end of the stick on this one, Steve.”

He was seeing double; had been, really, since this entire thing had started. Bucky then, and Bucky now. They were separate, and they were the same. And Steve hadn’t been able to see it before, but there was a thread that connected them; thin and weak, and so, so fragile. But it was there.

“Bucky,” Steve said, already regretting what he was about to say, but knowing that it was the right thing to do. “Are you only doing this because of…” He trailed off.

“Does it matter?” Bucky asked. There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, only genuine questioning.

And did it matter? Did it matter why they did what they did, as long as they both wanted it?

Coming to a decision, Steve leaned forward and kissed Bucky again. He felt Bucky smile against his lips, and then begin to kiss back fervently. The hand that had been on Steve’s chest slipped around to his waist, tugging Steve closer until they were flush against one another. Bucky’s body was hot despite the chill of the winter air, and already, Steve could feel him growing hard against his thigh. He bit at Bucky’s lower lip, insistent and demanding, until Bucky opened his mouth. Their tongues tangled together, and Steve lost himself in the kiss.

Bucky made a desperate noise that Steve immediately swallowed, chasing after more. He pressed against Bucky hard, rolling his hips. He could feel himself starting to swell now too, the friction against his cock delicious, even through the layers of fabric. Bucky’s hands clutched at Steve where they were wrapped around him as Bucky moved his hips in return, rocking against Steve’s body and moaning at the sensation.

He could have stayed there forever, kissing Bucky, nipping and biting at his lips, and rolling his hips until he came untouched. But it wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t what Bucky _needed_. Steve promptly dropped his hands down, scooping Bucky up with a firm grip on the backside of his thighs, lifting him until he was slightly taller than Steve. Bucky got the idea immediately, and his legs wrapped around Steve’s waist.

Steve shoved the balcony door open with his foot and walked Bucky back towards the bedroom. Bucky’s hard cock was trapped between their bodies, and every step rubbed it against Steve’s abdomen. Bucky gasped and tightened his legs around Steve like a vice, rocking back and forth, trying to maintain the stimulation.

Steve kicked open the door to his bedroom, striding across the floor and dumping Bucky unceremoniously on the bed. He had just a second to see the surprised look on Bucky’s face before he swooped down, determined not to go without touching Bucky for longer than he had to. In a reversal of the night of Bucky’s heat, Steve crawled onto the bed, straddling Bucky’s waist as he leaned down to kiss him again. Without breaking the kiss, Steve’s hands went to Bucky’s waist, fumbling with his belt. Bucky did the same for him, and for a moment they both worked at undressing the other, ending in a mad scramble as they both removed their clothing as quickly as they could, desperate to be touching again.

The moment Bucky’s cock was free Steve wrapped his hand around it. It was thick and flushed, dripping with precome. Steve swiped his hand over the head, using the wetness from Bucky’s tip to smooth the glide of his hand as he stroked him. Bucky groaned, the sound deep and guttural as Steve continued to stroke him, building up a quick rhythm.

It wasn’t a heat, but when Steve swiped the fingers of his other hands between Bucky’s thighs, he still felt slick warmth. He couldn’t help but moan; Bucky’s body wanted Steve, was ready for him. He looked down at Bucky, catching his eyes and silently demanding that Bucky watch. Bucky did so, panting, open-mouthed, as Steve again swept his fingers up Bucky’s thighs, gathering wetness. His eyes followed Steve’s fingers, attention rapt as Steve brought the digits to Bucky’s mouth and pushed them in. Bucky accepted his fingers eagerly, his wet, pink tongue curling around them as he sucked them clean. Steve shuddered, his other hand stuttering on Bucky’s cock as he struggled to maintain his composure. Bucky’s eyes were gleeful; he knew exactly the kind of effect he was having on Steve, and he seemed to delight in punctuating the entire thing with an especially hard suck.

Carefully, Steve withdrew his fingers, tracing them along Bucky’s cheek, wiping the spit and slick from them. Between his legs, his own cock was achingly hard and thoroughly neglected. He would have had no problem leaving it that way, focused on Bucky as he was, but Bucky’s hands were moving, wrapping around Steve and squeezing tightly. Steve grunted as he thrust his hips, fucking into the tight grip.

It was good. So good that Steve nearly lost himself to it, fucking into Bucky’s fists as he kept up a steady rhythm stroking Bucky’s cock. The two of them gasping and panting, their breath coming hard and fast in the quiet, both of them working their way quickly towards the edge of the cliff. With a cry, Steve forced himself to stop. Bucky whimpered as Steve’s hand on his cock slowed and then stopped. Steve wanted nothing more than to keep going, to drag Bucky over the edge and watch his eyes roll back as he came, but this wasn’t right. He wanted more, wanted to give Bucky _more_.

Quickly, he moved, kneeling beside him on the bed. He took one of Bucky’s feet delicately in hand. Bucky watched, a curious expression on his face, but his body relaxed enough to encourage Steve to continue. Steve moved carefully, pushing up, folding Bucky’s leg until his knee was to his chest, then doing the same with the other. Like this, Bucky was open, his hole exposed, the tight, pink ring of muscle wet and shiny with slick.

Steve reached forward, pushing one finger, then two, experimentally into Bucky, groaning as they sank into Bucky’s body without resistance. He pumped them once, then curled them, reaching for that spot he knew would make Bucky light up, his heart soaring in triumph when Bucky cried out. He crooked his fingers, the pads of them rubbing at Bucky’s prostate until Bucky was squirming on the bed, the sheets tangling beneath him as he whimpered and whined. Slick poured from him, coating Steve’s fingers and wrist, dripping onto the sheets below as Bucky howled.

Without warning, Steve pulled his fingers out, watching in fascination as Bucky’s hole fluttered, searching desperately for something to fill it. Between his legs, Steve’s own cock was dripping, hard and ready. He sought out Bucky’s eyes. They weren’t like the last time, heat-glazed and desperate. They were clear and bright, and one look was all the permission that Steve needed.

Bucky cried out as Steve slipped inside. He met the slightest bit of resistance, but pushed forward anyway, sliding forward until he was seated fully, down to the root. Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, wordless panting as Steve pulled almost completely out before fucking into him again. Bucky reached for him, and Steve came willingly, leaning down and meeting Bucky with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, wet and sloppy and desperate. He pressed forward, pushing Bucky’s legs against his chest as he fucked him. Bucky moaned into his mouth, his breath hot on Steve’s cheeks.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, and Steve promptly swallowed the sound, tangling his tongue with Bucky’s until they were both breathless. “Oh fuck, Steve.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. Bucky’s body was tight and slick, hugging his cock as he slid in and out in a steady rhythm. Bucky’s cock was trapped against his abdomen, wet and dripping precome, rubbing into his skin with each thrust of Steve’s hips. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“Steve,” Bucky said again, “I want- _oh fuck_ – I want-“

“Tell me,” Steve encouraged him. He laid his hands on Bucky’s calves, pushing his legs tighter to his chest as he slammed back into him. “Anything, you can have anything.”

“I want a bond mark.”

Steve froze. He thought he had been prepared for anything, but Bucky had proven him wrong. What else was new. He was still buried to the hilt in Bucky’s ass, and Bucky made a sound of annoyance at Steve’s sudden stop. He bucked his hips, pushing himself forward, leading from the bottom. Steve shuddered as Bucky’s muscles squeezed his cock tightly.

“Bucky-“ he said.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen in a few hours,” Bucky breathed. He bucked his hips again and Steve groaned, low in his throat. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared, and if this is my last few hours as me, then I want to feel like I’m in charge. I want to make a decision that belongs to _me_. Not something that other people do to me, but something that I chose.”

Steve’s rational brain told him he should protest. But he was so, so tired of trying, and failing, to do the right thing when it came to Bucky. And besides, if he didn’t listen to him, he was no better than those Hydra assholes. The only thing was, it all seemed a bit unreal. A dream, maybe. The thing he’d wanted more than anything, and now here Bucky was, offering it up on a golden platter.

“Yes,” Steve said excitedly. “Yes, of course. I want that too.”

Bucky smiled up at him and it was the most perfect thing Steve had ever seen. “How do we…”

Of course, Bucky didn’t remember. The last time they’d done this was almost a century ago.

“Relax,” Steve told him, and leaned down to kiss him again.

Beneath his hands, he felt Bucky’s body go slack, his muscles unknotting as he let his tension drain away. Steve nosed at the curve of his jaw, pushing until Bucky tipped his head back against the pillows, exposing the long, lean lines of his neck. Burying his nose in Bucky’s skin, Steve inhaled, reveling in the scent that was his omega. And oh god, his stomach fluttered at the thought. _His_ omega. It would be even more real in just a few seconds. Bucky would be his again and he would be Bucky’s. Steve pulled out gently as he kissed the delicate skin of Bucky’s neck, trailing down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He kissed the skin there, licked at it, tasting it. And then he bit down as he slowly sank back inside. Bucky gasped as Steve’s teeth broke skin, his muscles spasming and trembling, his eyes rolling back in his head as endorphins from the mating bite flooded his system. His hole constricted around Steve’s cock, the force of it pulling Steve’s orgasm out of him with a relentlessness that took Steve by surprise. He moaned loudly as he came, filling Bucky with his release. He could taste blood on his tongue. His nerves were on fire, his orgasm a rolling wave knocking through him, taking down everything in its wake as his cock pulsed with the aftershocks. Bucky’s taut muscles continued to milk him dry as Steve’s hips stuttered, his thrusts weakening until it was all he could do to press in, sinking deep into Bucky as his cock emptied itself.

Trembling, Steve sat up as best he could, releasing Buckys’ neck. He soothed the spot with his tongue, the blood metallic and copper-bright in his mouth, before leaning back to admire his handiwork. There on Bucky’s neck was the perfect imprint of Steve’s teeth. _A bond mark_. He knew it would fade; Bucky’s serum would see to that, but for this one moment it was clear and real and _there_.

Bucky’s face was wet with tears, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sobbed. Steve slid out of him, releasing his legs to a more relaxed position. He noted with delight that Bucky had come as well, although Steve had been too lost in the moment to notice when. Bucky’s abdomen and chest were sticky with come, his spent cock slowly softening where it lay on his stomach.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered. His eyes were still closed, but the flow of tears had stopped. He looked sated and content, a blissful sort of smile creeping across his lips.

Steve kissed him. Small and sweet, a chaste little thing, nothing compared to what they had been doing. Yet somehow, it meant more than all the others combined. Steve could practically taste the bond in it, the sweet, blissful feeling of knowing you were no longer alone in the world. He could see it on Bucky’s face, the dawning revelation that things were different now. 

“Always,” he said, because anything else seemed too insincere.

Steve’s hand crept up to his own neck. He was hyper aware of the skin there, disappointingly smooth as it was. He wanted a new mark to match the one on Bucky’s neck, but giving a bite was just as intense as receiving one, and it wasn’t something he was going to ask of Bucky if Bucky wasn’t ready. Besides, his feelings had never faded. Unlike Bucky, Steve had lived with the bond day-in and day-out for all this time. He could live a few more.


	13. Chapter 13

“So, not to kill the vibe or anything, but we _do_ have a plan, right?” Clint asked.

The six of them were gathered around the war table in the Quinjet, matching frowns decorating each face. The holographic monitor projected three-dimensional models of the Triskelion, overlaid with the building’s blueprints. Someone had moved the map, zooming in on their target for the evening. In the blue glow, the faces of his team took on an eerie radiance as Steve studied each of them in turn. The odd lighting even made the fresh, red mark on Bucky's neck turn dark.

The fact that Bucky was there at all was a blow to Steve’s confidence. But he’d lost the fight over whether or not Bucky would be joining them before it had even had a chance to begin. Bucky had shut him down so thoroughly there hadn’t even been an opportunity to argue. It made sense; even Steve could grudgingly admit that. But still, the thought of willfully putting Bucky in danger made him sick to his stomach.

Natasha elbowed Clint to quiet him down. “We’re waiting for the shift change,” she said, with the air of a person long-suffering.

“You know, for an evil empire, their security is awfully lax,” Tony commented, looking bored.

Natasha ignored him. “Shift change is normally at 1am.” She reached up, using her thumb and forefinger to pinch at the projected map, magnifying one of the hallways before zeroing in on a single, nondescript room. “This is the security station. The guards should still be settling in when we get there. Shouldn’t be too hard to take them out.” She flashed a predatory grin. “Just leave them to me.”

Tony stepped up and tapped the map twice. The image zoomed back out of the guard room to show the entire floor, before he magnified another portion. “Once Nat’s got control of the security systems, she can call up the elevator.” The map showed a bank of elevators and Tony picked out the last one on the right. “This is the one that goes down to Project Insight. It needs a special code, but between Clint and I, we can get in.”

Clint waggled his eyebrows at Tony’s words, seeming far too happy about their current situation. “Breaking in does happen to be one of my specialties,” he said cheerfully.

Nat elbowed him again, harder this time, and Clint swatted at her as she spoke. “Like Tony said, the elevator should take you straight down. There shouldn’t be any guards posted in the docking bay.” She shrugged. “One man’s hubris is another man’s gain. Or woman’s. And from there-“ She motioned at Tony, who beamed as he held up a handful of what looked like double-A batteries.

“These babies,” he said, practically cooing as he held them up to the hologram, the blue light striping across the black casings. He handed them out; five for Clint, Natasha, and himself, three for Steve, and two for Bucky. “Enough firepower to knock out the Empire State building. Natasha will plant hers upstairs. A little back-up, if you will. The rest of us will wire up the helicarriers while Bruce coordinates everything from up here.”

The bombs were small enough to fit in Steve’s pocket, but as he held one up to the light to inspect it, it might as well have weighed as much as a nuke. At his side, he could see Bucky doing the same, his countenance grim as he looked over his own payload.

Looking at Bucky made the sick feeling in Steve’s stomach worse. It wasn’t his place to tell Bucky what he could or couldn’t do. But still, he couldn’t help his desperate desire to protect Bucky. Letting him into that building, letting him go anywhere near Hydra; the thought made Steve want to vomit. He tried to focus instead on something good, on the mark on Bucky’s neck. But even that wasn’t enough to stop his wild thoughts from running away into the unknown. Two hours had turned out to be a painfully short amount of time, especially when all Steve had wanted to do was to stay in bed with Bucky forever, basking in the afterglow of the mating bite. Bucky had always been beautiful. That had never changed. But now, with the clear imprint of Steve’s teeth on his throat, he was absolutely gorgeous, and the only thing Steve wanted to do more than show him off was to keep him in bed. The world, however, hadn’t been quite as keen on Steve’s plans, and far too soon Jarvis had had to gently remind them that it was time to go.

While he’d been lost in his own head, Natasha had been speaking. “So Bruce will monitor our progress, and when it’s time, he’ll land the Quinjet on the north lawn. We’ll detonate remotely once we’re well away,” she finished.

“Easy money,” Clint said, grinning.

Right. Simple. Easy. Looking around at his teammates, Steve wished he could feel their confidence. And when exactly had that happened, that he’d become the cautious one? He had Bucky to protect, sure, but it had to be more than that. He’d been feeling off-kilter about this entire thing since the beginning, and now it was starting to come to a head.

The static crackle of the radio filled the interior of the jet. _“Guards are packing up,”_ came Sam’s voice, the familiar tone was at least a small measure of comfort to Steve’s panicked brain. Sam had been all too happy to assist when Steve had called him, and Steve had taken solace in the fact that Sam would at least be far away from the action. _“You all good up there?”_

“Right on track,” Natasha called out. “ETA on second shift?”

 _“In the parking lot now.”_ The static grew louder for a moment, before suddenly quieting back down. _“Only two of them. Guess Hydra decided on some budget cuts this quarter.”_

“Well, you know what they say,” Tony said casually, leaning on the table as he flipped one of the miniature bombs between his fingers. “Evil doesn’t pay.”

Steve could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes over the line. _“They’re heading into the building now. I’d go ahead and get into position.”_

“Everyone good on the plan?” Natasha asked, and one by one the team nodded. “Sam, Bruce is going to put the Quinjet down. Start making your way here.”

 _“10-4,”_ Sam replied, before the radio cut out.

Was it too late to say no? His heart was a lead weight behind his ribs; a few more beats and it would pull him through the floor of the Quinjet to tumble through the clouds. Steve glanced furtively at Bucky; he looked determined, hard and cold, his face lined with tension. It was the expression that had been ever-present when he’d first arrived at the Tower, but had been slowly melting away. Now it had returned in full force, and Steve hated it.

“Alright?” Steve asked quietly, his voice pitched for Bucky’s ears alone.

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice equally low. He turned toward Steve, his bright blue eyes lined with worry that belied his words. “You?”

Steve’s hand dipped into the pocket of his uniform trousers, his fingers seeking out the small dart of tranquilizer. It was the same one that Natasha had given him the night they’d found Bucky. He’d wrestled with the idea of bringing it along, picking it up and putting it down a dozen times as he’d argued with himself. In the end, he’d snatched it up at the last minute, shoving it into his pocket while guilt washed over him. But the thought of watching Bucky return to Hydra was more than he could handle, and if that’s what it took to stop him, Steve would gladly do it.

“I’ll survive,” Steve said with a rueful smile.

“It’s time,” Tony announced, and just like that, the spell between the two of them was broken, the hard look returning to Bucky’s face in an instant. Steve felt the floor shift beneath his feet as the Quinjet began its descent.

“Bucky,” Steve started. He could feel gravity start its inexorable pull as Bruce pushed the jet past its normal descent speed. The landing had to be quick, the Quinjet back up in the air as soon as possible if they wanted to avoid detection.

“Don’t,” Bucky said. The request was almost gentle, nothing like the harsh rebuke that Steve had expected, and somehow that was worse than if Bucky had simply started screaming at him.

Before long, there was a mighty jolt as the Quinjet made contact with the ground, the metal creaking and groaning around them as the landing gear struggled under the stress of the quick landing. From there it was a quick run to the north face of the building, the five of them crouching low, keeping to the shadows and hopefully out of any camera’s view.

The weather had taken a bitter turn in the last few hours; an unrelenting, freezing drizzle coating the grass in half-frozen slush. It worked in their favor, the appallingly quick change in temperature keeping away any accidental passers-by. Steve hated to think how this might have turned out on a night with fairer weather. The less people involved in this, the better.

They came to a stop against the side of the building, just outside of a double-plate glass window. Immediately, Steve found himself searching Bucky out, his heart racing until he’d set eyes on Bucky again and assured himself that he hadn’t somehow gotten injured between the Quinjet and here. Even as he thought it, he chastised himself for it. He had to trust that Bucky knew what he was doing, that _all_ of them knew what they were doing, but it was easier said than done.

“You’ll have 90 seconds,” Natasha said, directing her words towards Tony. “If the alarm isn’t shut off by then, it’ll automatically call the fire department.”

Tony smirked, his eyes dancing merrily at the thought. “I can do it in half that.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Steve had seen Tony take down entire mainframes in less time that it took a normal person to turn a computer on. Still, he couldn’t help the nerves that rustled through him. There was a fine tremor to his hands, an unsteadiness to his legs. Steve blamed it on the freezing wind. He almost jumped in surprise when a hand slotted suddenly into his, squeezing tightly. _Bucky._

“Last minute questions?” Steve asked the group, clearing his throat and squeezing Bucky’s hand in return. The warmth of it was reassuring, and Steve felt his heartbeat return to something resembling normal.

Clint was the first to speak. “So… waffles, after this?”

The tense mood was broken. “I don’t know,” Tony said. “I think I’m feeling Italian food tonight.”

Natasha scoffed at both their suggestions. “Pizza, clearly.”

“ _Technically_ Italian,” Tony shot back.

“Bite me,” Natasha said, batting her eyelashes at him.

Bruce cut in, static crackling over Steve’s earpiece as he spoke, _“First person back to the Quinjet picks the food.”_

Clint and Tony muttered their disagreement while Natasha shrugged. Steve couldn’t have cared less what they ate, as long as they were all in one piece and together. He kept that particular sentiment to himself; it didn’t seem like a good idea to bring the mood down right before a mission.

“See you losers on the other side,” Tony said, turning and giving the rest of the group a mock salute. The eyes of his suit flared to life as his helmet folded over his face and he turned back to the window, a beam of energy from the palm of his hand tracing along the outside of the glass. There was a small crash and the sound of something shattering as the newly-freed pane fell inwards, and immediately an alarm began to wail from deep inside the building.

Tony climbed into the broken window, and one by the one they followed. Steve vaulted quickly over the broken remains of glass on the floor as Tony ripped open the security panel on the wall. The room they were in served as one of the major electrical hubs of the building. They’d chosen it as their entry point for a reason.

As Tony worked, the alarm continued to howl through the empty halls, bouncing off the floors and ceilings, worming its way into Steve’s head. He could feel himself starting to panic as the seconds ticked by. Red emergency lights lit the room, turning the familiar faces of his friends into something ghoulish and strange.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Tony muttered under his breath, pulling at a jumble of wires. The helmet of his suit was expressionless, but Steve could imagine his face, mouth twisted down into a frown and brow furrowed as he worked. “C’mon baby, work with me here.”

“30 seconds,” Natasha told him calmly, drawing her pistol.

“Got it!” Tony cried triumphantly.

Blessedly, the alarm cut off, leaving Steve’s head ringing with the phantom sound. The building was plunged into darkness once again as Steve’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dim lighting. Beside him, Bucky was pale, sweating even after the freezing temperature of the grounds. Steve fought the urge to reach for Bucky’s hand. They still had a job to do, after all.

“Go, go, go!” Clint said, in a half-whisper, half-shout that did nothing to conceal their location.

On cue, all five of them took off running. They’d memorized the layout of the first floor of the Triskelion on the ride from New York to DC. Steve could see the building plans in his head, automatically laying them over the real thing as he ran. At the end of this corridor, the hallway branched, left, right and center. Natasha took the left turn, heading straight for the guard room. The alarm would have alerted them to the team’s presence by now, but they’d studied the past security logs and Sam had confirmed; there would only be two guards on duty tonight. Natasha could handle that in her sleep.

The rest of them continued on straight until they reached the lobby of the building. At the far end stood a bank of elevators, ten in total, as befitting a building of this size. Memories pressed in on Steve; the Triskelion was one of the first places that had truly felt like home when he’d finally started to settle in, and now here they were, destroying one of the few places that had brought him comfort. The irony of it was almost unsettling.

The elevator they needed was the last one on the right. Steve was the first to get there, and he jammed the call button so hard that he cracked the plastic casing. Almost instantaneously, the elevator dinged, the soft sound loud in the silent lobby. All four of them piled in as the doors slid open, the tiny space made even smaller by the presence of all their combat gear. Tony’s suit was bulky, and Bucky’s borrowed gear bristled with hidden guns and knives, while Steve’s shield took up more than its fair share of elevator real estate.

“Clint,” Tony said, motioning to the other man with a jerk of his head. The two of them crouched by the control panel. Clint was reaching in, his hands startlingly close to the energy beams of Tony’s suit as Tony worked to remove the outer plating. After a second of watching Clint almost lose his fingers, Steve reached down and gripped the edge of the control panel plating, tearing it off the wall entirely. Once the guts of the wiring were on display, Clint wasted no time in manipulating the wires, trying different combinations while muttering under his breath. Tony interjected every few seconds, reaching for the wires while Clint batted him away.

Somehow, their combined attempt at hot-wiring the elevator must have succeeded, because the digital display over the doors went blank as they began to descend. _Slowly_ , Steve thought with dismay. Too slow. Regardless of whether or not Natasha took out the guards, they still didn’t want to linger. The faster they could get this done and get out, the better chance they had of surviving it all in one piece. Tony seemed to notice Steve’s frustration with their current speed, because he reached in again, tweaked another wire, and suddenly the elevator lurched, the floor nearly dropping out from beneath their feet as their rate of descent increased ten-fold.

Beside him, Bucky looked vaguely ill. His tension was clear in the set of his shoulders, his jaw tight as his teeth ground together. Sweat slicked his temples and hairline, and Steve wanted desperately to comfort him, to tell him that it would all be okay, but there was no time. The elevator slammed to a stop, all four of them thrown forward and nearly off their feet, as Steve’s ears popped at the sudden change in altitude.

The doors sprang open and Steve was momentarily stunned into inaction. It was clear that the rest of his party felt the same. Slowly, he stepped out into a truly massive space. The room was cavernous, the ceiling so far above them that it made Steve dizzy to look up, and the far wall was blurry in the distance. He’d seen the building plans, had known what a large space would be required to store three helicarriers, but seeing it in person was a wholly different experience. The space they were in now stretched the entire length of the building, and continued on below their feet for what felt like miles. The helicarriers themselves were like ocean liners, dry-docked, their colossal size overwhelming as Steve tried to take them in. Suddenly, their task felt monumental.

“Holy fuck,” Clint said, and yeah. That pretty much summed it up.

“They’re beautiful,” Tony said, stepping forward. There was a measure of awe in his voice as he looked up at the behemoths, the dull gleam of the metal bulkheads reflecting in his eyes. “Let’s go blow them up.”

Without another word they all split off. Tony went to the right, flares of light at his feet and palms as his suit glided over the ground. Clint took off to the left, his footsteps light as he disappeared into the shadows. Steve went straight down the center, Bucky following quickly behind. As they stepped out past the elevators, the solid concrete came to an end; the floor beyond was made of intertwining catwalks, the metal clanging underfoot as they ran. Through the grates, Steve could see the floor far, far below, an unsettling reminder of how far they had to fall should anything go wrong.

The helicarrier loomed over them as they approached. The way it was docked placed the catwalk they were currently on at the middle third of the hull. A large section of the metal siding was missing, machinery and steel beams exposed, workmen’s tools still littering the ground at the feet, left ready for a job that they certainly wouldn’t get to finish. From here, Steve could see inside of the helicarrier; it was only half-finished. How they planned to launch in three days, Steve had no idea, but that wasn’t exactly his problem. If they had their way tonight, none of them would ever launch at all.

Steve reached the end of the catwalk and leapt. He landed lightly, his hands grabbing for the exposed metal edge of what amounted to a giant hole in the side of the helicarrier. His feet found purchase on a massive tangle of wiring, and he took a moment to test the strength of his perch before turning back to reach out for Bucky. Steve had his hand out and waiting as he motioned for Bucky to take it. Instead, Bucky gave him a disdainful look before backing up and making the jump on his own, landing neatly a few yards away.

 _“How’s it going down there?”_ Bruce’s voice crackled to life in Steve’s ear.

 _“Guards are fast asleep.”_ Natasha had a pep in her voice that Steve recognized as satisfaction at a job well done. _“Lightweights.”_ She paused. _“Though they are rather heavy. I’m on my way to you Bruce. Make sure you’ve got a comfortable room set up for our guests.”_

 _“I still say we just leave them here,”_ Tony said, and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say he sounded sulky. _“Being the good guys is so overrated.”_

 _“Here, here!”_ Clint cheered in agreement.

 _“How are things with the helicarriers?”_ Natasha asked, tactfully ignoring the rest of the conversation. Her breathing was harder now, presumably as she dragged the unconscious bodies of the guards to undeserved safety.

 _“Piece of cake, baby,”_ Tony cooed. _"Two down, four to go.”_

As Tony had explained on the short trip from New York to DC, each helicarrier would be rigged up with five explosives; one at each cardinal point and one at the center. He’d explained that it would be enough firepower to turn the Triskelion into little more than a crater in the ground, and the location of the explosives deep in the ground beneath the building would ensure that the explosion was contained. The goal was to destroy Hydra’s stronghold, not the entire city.

 _“Well, we can’t all fly,”_ Clint said, sounding annoyed. _“I’ve got one placed here.”_

 _“Cap?”_ Bruce asked. _“Bucky?”_

“Still working on it,” Steve said.

The interior of the helicarrier was lined with suspended catwalks, much like the outside had been. Steve dropped heavily down onto the nearest one, the metal shaking beneath his feet in an alarming fashion. Bucky landed beside him, and the two of them shared a look before splitting off in opposite directions. The second Bucky left his side, Steve felt the old familiar ache in his chest return as his body screamed at him to go after his omega. But they had to do this; there wasn’t any other choice. And if they were successful, it would be one more step down the road to knocking Hydra out for good.

 _“Slowpokes,”_ Tony said teasingly.

“Can we please concentrate on the mission,” Steve huffed as he ran. In no time at all, he’d reached the first drop-off point. He deposited the first of his bombs, fingers seeking out the small switch on one end as he stuck it to the inside of the metal hull. A green light went off, indicating the bomb was armed, and Steve took one last look around before turning to run for the next location. “First down.”

 _“I don’t understand how you can be this grumpy directly after getting laid,”_ Tony muttered.

 _“Second bomb in place,”_ Bucky said smoothly. Even over the radio, he sounded completely unruffled by Tony’s comment. Steve couldn’t say he would have handled it nearly as eloquently.

Natasha took care of it for him, bless her. _“Tony!”_

 _“Oh, Jarvis hears everything,”_ Tony said. Steve could hear the smirk in his voice.

 _“That’s it,”_ Clint said, tone clipped. _“I’m officially moving out. Second bomb in place here.”_

 _"Oh no,"_ Tony said, completely dead-pan. _"You'll be so missed."_ And then, not to be outdone, he followed it with, _“Third bomb down. So are we thinking fancy Italian, or more mom’n’pop.”_

 _“Sorry,”_ Bruce said, not sounding sorry in the least. _“But I think Natasha beat you.”_

 _“Unfair!”_ Tony protested. There was a loud clank on his end of the line and he sounded suddenly breathless. _“Her job was easier!”_

 _“Don’t worry,”_ Natasha said. The quality of her voice was different now, more crisp. She must have joined Bruce on the Quinjet. _“We’ll still let you pay for dinner, Tony.”_

Steve reached his second waypoint, quickly arming and attaching the second bomb. His heart was racing as he checked the green light, half from exertion and half from nervousness. The entire plan was going off without a hitch. It was going well, too well. The more successful they were, the more his gut twisted in on itself. Something wasn’t right, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

But they were too far in to call it quits now. Steve took one last glance at the bomb before taking off for the center of the helicarrier. The criss-crossing catwalks were like a maze in the dark interior, the only sounds his own panting breaths and the clanging of metal beneath his feet. He wondered how close Bucky was to being done with his half of the bombs.

 _“Done,”_ Tony said. _“Clint, Cap- the elevator's set to take you back up.”_

 _“Thanks Tony,”_ Clint said quietly.

Steve murmured his agreement, but he didn’t have time for much else; he’d reached the center of the helicarrier. The catwalk he’d been on terminated at a large bank of computers, the main electrical database for the massive structure. More computers stretched out to either side, circling around the massive steel column that made up the center of the helicarrier. Catwalks extended out every few feet, each disappearing in the distance.

Gingerly, he placed the last bomb, waiting for the indicator to flash green before sticking it firmly to the largest monitor he could find. He knew it wouldn’t matter much in the end. The bomb would destroy everything within its radius, but it felt like a fitting end all the same.

He exhaled shakily, feeling like he’d been holding his breath since he’d left the jet. It was _done_ , at least the hard part, anyway. Now all he had to do was get Bucky and get out of here.

He tapped his earpiece, switching it to a private channel. “Bucky,” he said, his voice swallowed up by the massive interior of the helicarrier. “I’m here. Are you almost done?”

There was no answer.

Steve wanted to panic. Every second that went by without an answer was an entire lifetime, and Steve wanted to scream with the frustration of it. But Bucky wasn’t used to working with the team. Of course he was slower than the rest of them, Steve tried to tell himself. No matter the fact that Steve had seen his abilities back when they’d fought at Pierce’s. No matter that Bucky was probably in the best shape out of all of them and more capable besides. Steve wasn’t going to panic. He wasn’t. He _wasn’t._

The team channel cut back in. _“I’m out,”_ Clint said happily. _“Cap, you guys okay over there?”_

“I’m not-“ Steve started.

Bucky’s voice cut in, and the relief that Steve felt was palpable, so strong he could almost cry. _“We’re fine. Go ahead. We’ll be right behind you.”_

“Bucky?” Steve said into the surrounding gloom, as he switched off his headset. He couldn’t see him, but Bucky could have been anywhere. The inside of the helicarrier was a labyrinth, and his voice bounced off the far-away walls, returning muted echoes of his own voice. “Thank god, I was starting to get worried. Where are you?”

“Hello Captain.”

The voice filled Steve with dread and he turned slowly, his mind trying in vain to refuse the sudden horror of his situation. But try as he might, he couldn’t deny what was in front of his own eyes. There, approaching from his left was Pierce, with Rumlow two steps behind. Even now, Pierce wore a grey, three-piece suit, and the incongruity of it when compared to Rumlow’s tac gear was startling. Pierce couldn’t have said any louder if he’d tried that he didn’t plan on getting his own hands dirty. Rumlow had a gleeful look on his face as they approached, and Steve woefully regretted not taking him out when he’d had the chance.

The sight of the two men was wholly unwelcome, but it was the person in between who caught and kept Steve’s interest.

_Bucky._

His heart was breaking, shattering, the pieces skittering away and off the edges of the catwalk to fall into darkness below. “Bucky,” Steve said, knowing already that it was in vain.

He hadn’t expected a response, but it still hurt worse than being shot through the chest when Bucky’s face remained dull and lifeless, his eyes staring blankly ahead. He was looking right through Steve as if he didn’t exist.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, because even though he knew that Bucky wouldn’t answer, he had to at least try. _This isn’t happening_ , he told himself, it couldn’t be. He’d just gotten Bucky back, and now that lifeless expression was so much worse than before and it wasn’t _fair_ , it wasn’t, _no no no no-_

“I’m afraid the Soldier isn’t the talking type,” Pierce said, his voice smooth, and Steve’s eyes snapped back to him. Pierce had stepped closer, Rumlow and Bucky following like little shadows. For the first time he noticed the gun in Pierce’s hand, sleek and black and deadly. As Steve watched, Pierce leveled the gun at him, the black maw of the barrel blending in with the darkness around them. Steve didn’t care. He’d walk into a hail of bullets if that was what it took for him to be able to rip Pierce limb from limb.

“What did you do?” Steve asked coldly. The anger that had flared hot and bright was now freezing cold. It was better that way. Easier to control. “Give him back.”

Rumlow laughed, and Steve went momentarily blind with the desire to wrap his hands around Rumlow’s throat and squeeze until he never had to hear that fucking laugh again.

“All I did was take back what’s rightfully mine,” Pierce said, an air of incredulousness in his voice, as if Steve was the one who was a problem here. “I do want to thank you for taking such good care of it though.” He patted Bucky’s shoulder, smiling at Steve innocently. Pierce’s hand trailed over Bucky’s skin, stopping at the bond mark. “Though I’m not pleased about the damage.”

Fuck being in control. Rage filled him, white-hot and all-consuming. How dare he. _How dare he._

“You fucking-“

Pierce held out a finger and waved it back and forth like Steve was a particularly naughty toddler. _“Tsk-tsk,”_ he said. “I wouldn’t start with that now, Captain.”

And why? Why shouldn’t he rush forward and tear Pierce apart. It was no less than the bastard deserved.

“Soldier,” Pierce said casually, and Steve’s blood froze in his veins as he watched Bucky lift a knife to his own throat. Steve’s body had gone numb, his limbs beyond his own control as he watched the razor-thin edge of the steel knife press into Bucky’s throat. His lungs had stopped working, his throat spasming around nothing as he tried desperately for air. This was it. Pierce had found a way to neutralize them both. Steve didn’t care what happened to himself, would gladly lay down his own life for the right cause, but the thought of watching Bucky suffer, of watching him _die_ , was more than Steve could handle.

“Good boy,” Pierce said into the sudden silence. Steve still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky and the knife. “Now here’s the plan,” Pierce continued, his voice as casual as if he was announcing what he’d had for breakfast. “You’re going to hand over that bomb and your shield to Rumlow. And then you’re going to call your team and let them know that it’s over. They do what I say, or I’ll kill the both of you.”

“It won’t work,” Steve said from between gritted teeth. “You can kill us, but it won’t change a damn thing. My team knows better than to give in to someone like you.”

Pierce shrugged, and the nonchalance of it all made Steve want to scream. Beside him, Bucky was still as a statue, the knife still pressed to his neck. “Unfortunate,” Pierce said. “Now put down your shield.”

Some unspoken signal must have passed between them, because Rumlow rushed forward to collect Steve’s things as soon as they hit the ground. “I tried to tell you, Rogers,” he said. “We were always going to collect what belonged to Hydra.”

Steve felt his fingernails break the skin of his palms as he struggled not to punch Rumlow in the face. Only the glint of metal at Bucky’s neck kept him still as Rumlow picked up the last bit of explosive and Steve’s shield. He took a small amount of solace in watching Rumlow stagger under the unexpected weight, but the small modicum of happiness it brought him was quickly stolen away as Rumlow patted him down, taking the two pistols tucked in at his waist.

“Fuck off,” Steve hissed at him.

Finally satisfied, Rumlow blew him a kiss and backed away, still struggling with the weight of the shield.

“Now call your team,” Pierce commanded him.

Steve froze, his hands stuck at his sides. He wouldn’t do it.

“Call your team now,” Pierce said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice, “or your mate dies tonight.”

He couldn’t do it. This was every nightmare he’d had since Bucky had come crashing back into his life, all in living color and rolled up into one massive, never-ending horror. If he called his team, he was putting them in danger. There was no way they would remain safely away if they knew Steve and Bucky were in danger. Steve had seen Bucky fight. He knew that if his team came to rescue them, Pierce would send Bucky against them. They would have to hurt him to stop him. They would probably have to kill him.

But if Steve didn’t call the team, Bucky would die all the same. He’d press the knife into his throat with his own hands. Steve would have to watch as he sliced himself open, as his blood dripped down through the metal grating and the life left his eyes. He couldn’t do that; couldn’t do either. There was no right answer here; no matter which way he turned he could see only death and destruction stretching out into the endless future.

Pierce was getting frustrated. “Soldier!” he barked.

Steve watched in horror as his vision came true. His heart and his head screamed in tandem as Bucky’s metal fingers tightened on the knife in his grasp, pushing it against his skin until it sliced in. Blood welled up along the blade, falling down in red rivulets as it dripped down his neck, coating his collar and dripping down his chest. Throughout the entire process, his face remained unchanged, his eyes dull and expression uninterested, even as he hurt himself. He drew the blade around, sinking it in further, the slowness of it agonizing, until finally it reached the bond mark. As the blade bit in, Steve watched Bucky’s eyes widen. His face twitched, pain flickering across his features as his hand faltered.

“Soldier!” Pierce shouted again, and now he sounded alarmed. His next words were in Russian, harsh and guttural. At Bucky’s neck, the hand that had faltered was now steady, ready to begin it’s gruesome task again.

“Bucky!” Steve screamed, rushing forward. “Don’t!”

He was so focused on Bucky, so intent on stopping him, that Rumlow took him by surprise, slamming into him and knocking Steve to the ground. Steve’s head bounced off the metal as he cursed in pain. Rumlow landed on top of him, reaching immediately for Steve’s eyes. It was a dirty trick, and Steve bellowed in rage as he brought up a knee, catching Rumlow squarely in the ribs. But instead of doubling over Rumlow doubled down, throwing his body weight forward, trying to pin Steve to the ground. Somewhere in front of them there was a crash as something hit the floor.

_A body._

“Bucky!” Steve screamed again, and now Rumlow was nothing more than an object in between him and his mate. Using every last bit of his strength, he grabbed Rumlow and heaved them both to the side. Rumlow grunted in pain as he hit the catwalk beside Steve. There was just enough time for Steve to glimpse the whites of Rumlow’s wide eyes before he lashed out, kicking Rumlow as hard as he could off the edge of the catwalk. He landed with a sickening crunch.

Not stopping to look at his dirty handi-work, Steve sprang up off the ground. He wasn’t ready for what he might see. His mind filled in every last possibility in the millisecond before his eyes adjusted; Bucky, his eyes lifeless and staring up at the ceiling as he lay crumpled on the ground, knife held loosely in one hand as blood dripped from his neck.

He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready, and yet he had to look anyway, had to see. Steve’s eyes adjusted, his heart racing and head screaming as he saw-

Pierce.

The older man was lying at Bucky’s feet. His silver hair was in disarray and his expensive suit was rumpled as he lay motionless, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looked like he’d simply fallen asleep. Above him, Bucky stood, blank-faced, knife held half-way to his neck, hand wavering with uncertainty.

Steve rushed forward and yanked the blade away from him, tossing it behind them. “What-“ he began, unable to keep the trembling tone out of his voice.

Wordlessly, Bucky held out his other hand. There, in his palm, small and innocuous, was Natasha’s tranquilizer. Startled, Steve patted his own pockets, searching in vain for the dart that lay in Bucky’s palm. He hadn’t realized that Bucky had even seen him grab it earlier in the evening, didn’t have any possible clue as to when Bucky had stolen it off of him. And he didn’t much care. That stupid dart had saved them, and Steve wanted to kiss Natasha for her brilliance.

“I- I didn’t know, but I thought- I thought I might have to-“ Bucky was stuttering, his voice weak and shaky, and he looked closer to tears than Steve had ever seen him.

Steve took one last look at Pierce’s unconscious body before he grabbed Bucky up in his arms, hugging him tightly. “I thought-“

“I know.”

He felt Bucky’s arms snake around him in return, and they stayed like that for a long minute, hugging each other tightly. He wanted to bury his face in Bucky’s neck, to drown himself in his omega’s scent and stay there forever. Even then, it probably still wouldn’t be enough to convince himself that Bucky was safe. But Bucky’s wound was deep, blood flowing steadily. He hadn’t sunk in far enough to hit anything major, but he still needed medical attention sooner rather than later.

Pulling away, Steve gently reached out and took Bucky’s earpiece from him. Bucky didn’t protest. Instead, he’d started to shake, a fine tremor rocking him, his breathing hard. Steve didn’t blame him one bit.

Tucking the earpiece into his own ear, Steve switched it on.

 _“Steve? Bucky? What’s going on down there?”_ Bruce sounded on the edge of panic.

“We’re here,” Steve panted. A mix of voices followed, the entire team talking over one another with a litany of _‘thank god’_ and _‘are you okay’_ and _‘took you long enough’_. He was pretty sure that last one was just Tony though. “The last bomb is in place.” The last bomb was actually several hundred feet below with Rumlow, but the light had been green, and Steve was willing to leave at least that much up to fate. “We’re on our way back to you.”

==⍟==

The harsh, fluorescent light of the medical bay was dizzying after the relative darkness of the inside of the helicarrier.

“How do we keep ending up back here?” Steve muttered, watching like a hawk as Bruce placed another stitch.

“You know, this might go a lot faster if I didn’t feel like you were about to stab me for touching him,” Bruce said, eyes on Bucky’s neck as he tied off the suture.

“I think there’s been enough stabbing for one night,” Clint said. He was sitting on the adjacent bed, foot swinging back and forth as he spoke. “And blowing up. It’s been very violent.”

He wasn’t wrong. Far below them, the Triskelion burned bright enough to light up the night sky. The sound of the fire trucks racing to the scene had been audible for what felt like forever, until they’d finally been far enough up in the sky to be out of range.

“But you know what’s going to make it better, right?” Tony asked, and everyone groaned in response. Even Bucky, still shaky from the mission, rolled his eyes at Tony’s words. “What?” Tony asked with faux-shock in his voice. “Is no one excited about Italian food?”

 _“Out,”_ Bruce said with no small amount of exasperation. “I’m trying to work here.”

There was a grumbling and a bit of good-natured ribbing, but the team did as he asked and trickled out of the medical bay, leaving Bruce alone with Steve and Bucky. Steve watched them go with a small smile playing across his lips. He couldn’t ask for better friends; tonight had been just one more example of that in a long line of them.

Bruce placed one last stitch and then reached for a pile of sterile gauze, stacking it liberally atop Bucky’s wound before taping the whole thing in place. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said before graciously bowing out.

Steve caught his wrist as he made his way towards the door. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Bruce smiled and patted his arm. “One day,” he said, his eyes warm, “you’ll figure out that none of it’s a favor, Steve.”

Steve watched him leave, his eyes wet, before he turned back to Bucky. He was sitting on the same bed that Steve had put him in the night of Pierce’s party. Beneath their feet, the Quinjet hummed its quiet way across the sky towards New York and their new home in the Tower. Bucky hadn’t changed out of his mission clothes, blood still soaked the collar of his shirt, going stiff and crusty as it dried. He was pale from blood loss and smudged with dirt and still, Steve could have stared at him and been happy with the sight for the rest of his life.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a seat carefully by Bucky’s side.

“Like I just got a dozen stitches in my neck trying to save your dumb ass,” Bucky replied.

The tears that had been threatening now made themselves known, spilling over and down Steve’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said. The cut had obliterated Bucky’s bond mark. Steve knew it would heal, and in time all evidence of the night would fade away. But still, the thought of Pierce coming between them for even one more second made Steve’s blood boil. It was lucky that Pierce was under Sam’s watchful eye in the next room over. Steve couldn’t have guaranteed he’d treat Pierce nearly as well.

As if he knew exactly what Steve was thinking, Bucky raised his hand, his fingers hovering over the bandaging. “I’m sorry about the mark,” he said, as if he were the one who ought to be sorry.

“Don’t be,” Steve said fiercely, before his tone went soft. “This just means I’ll have to do it again when you’re ready.”

Bucky looked suddenly sad. “It’ll just heal over.”

“So I’ll do it again,” Steve said, leaning in closer. “And again, and again. Until you tell me to stop.”

“And if I don’t?” Bucky whispered.

In response, Steve kissed him. Bucky made a quiet noise of surprise and kissed him back, his lips gentle on Steve’s. They were both sweaty and sore from the night, riding that edge of exhausted delirium. The Triskelion was gone, Rumlow was dead, and Pierce had been neutralized. Natasha had liberated an untold amount of files when she’d taken out the guards, but that was a shitstorm for tomorrow.

Steve didn’t have a clue how any of this would end. He didn’t even know what lay beyond the next few minutes, and he didn’t care. For now, Bucky’s lips were on his, his scent strong in Steve’s nose, and his skin warm under Steve’s hands. For now, they were safe and alive. For now, they had a future, uncertain as it might be.

For now, at least, Steve was happy.


End file.
